#code red detailed explanation

[sknyuz]

cheers to youth | na baekjin

synopsis — seventeen begins to feel less like a number and more like a fleeting chance at youth for baekjin, and you're determined to help him reclaim it. now playing — cheers to youth - seventeen pairing — na baekjin x reader genre — a prequel to before the storm, fluff, hurt/comfort, f2l cw — mentions of violence (bruised knuckles, blood), implied gang activity, hints of trauma, light angst wc — ~3k

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⤷ read before the storm here

note: i am soooo excited to bring them back <3 thank u sm bubble anon and i hope to hear ur thoughts about this. ur request was a great way to circle back to their story. so, here’s a bit more of a softer side to our before the storm couple, before before the storm.

baekjin has been tutoring you for a few months.

months of sharp pencil taps and hushed explanations about algebra formulas, chemical equations, and the difference between mitosis and meiosis. three months of neatly organized notes, and surprisingly, moving from the library to quiet cafes after school, and the faint scent of worn-out textbooks. and somewhere between “you’re solving this backwards again” and “just memorize the codes by category,” you started to notice it.

it being: baekjin is different from you—not in the way most teenage boys are. he doesn’t tease, doesn’t zone out mid-sentence or start humming the latest pop song stuck in his head, baekjin is the kind of different that feels… heavier.

he doesn’t skip class or doodles in the margins of his notebook. and he definitely doesn’t take mirror selfies or kick vending machines when their drink gets stuck. baekjin doesn’t scream when teachers announce a pop quiz—just flips the page like he’s been expecting it all along.

you notice it especially in the way he walks—like he’s older than the rest of you. like seventeen is just a number he has to wear, not a year he gets to live in.

for you, seventeen is messy. it’s loud and full of mistakes, it’s glittery pens and bad decisions and crushes you won’t remember in two years.

but for baekjin, seventeen looks like duty, like pressure. like everything could fall apart if he dares to slow down.

and then the bell rings—that sharp, metallic echo that usually means freedom.

but baekjin doesn’t flinch with relief, he flinches like he’s bracing for something.

when the bells ring, i become fearful / these days, my heart gets scared first

you’re walking out of the building together, the sky bleeding into early evening. his backpack’s weighed down with papers—union notes, scribbled with surveillance details and plate numbers, things no seventeen-year-old should have to memorize.

he doesn’t bother hiding them from you anymore.

maybe he tried, once—keeping his bruised knuckles in his sleeves during tutoring, glancing at his phone under the table like it wasn’t burning a hole in his pocket. but now, he knows there’s no point, you’ve always noticed more than you let on. maybe you’re not as oblivious as your homeroom teacher thinks you are.

and maybe that’s why he lets the notes spill out so easily now—right next to your math textbook, like they belong there. he doesn’t flinch when your eyes catch the names or the red circles. he doesn’t apologize when he’s late, when his jaw is tense, when there’s dried blood on his collar.

you don’t push, you never ask about it.

and somehow, that quiet understanding—your decision to let him keep his secrets without making him feel like a secret—is more comforting than anything.

it’s not subtle, nor is it normal. but for baekjin, it’s something that feels oddly peaceful.

“do you even like being in high school?” you ask suddenly. your voice is light, but your heart’s not.

he doesn’t look up, just keeps writing something in his notebook as he walks. “…that’s not the point.”

i want to be alone, but i don’t want to be alone / i don’t get myself either…

“what is the point, then?” you lean closer, not letting him off that easily, “if you’re not having fun now, when will you? when you’re dead or dying?” you snort, but baekjin tenses up.

his pen stalls, the tip presses too long into the page, leaving behind a blot of ink. you watch it bloom like something bruising.

he lifts his eyes to you, just for a second, and there’s a flicker of something there—something soft, almost unsure, like a door left ajar. like he wants to say something, but doesn’t have the words for it yet.

so you smile at him, and that’s when you decide: if baekjin can’t find the fun in seventeen, then maybe you’ll just have to bring it to him yourself.

you take him to a photo booth after school.

you pile silly props onto his head—mismatched glasses and floppy bunny ears while he tries to duck out of the frame.

“baekjin,” you say, tugging his sleeve. “just one picture. c’mon.”

he hesitates, so you squint into the lens and say, “if you don’t smile, i’m writing ‘DNA is my myers-briggs personality type’ on our next biology exam.”

his head jerks toward you, scandalized—and that’s when the camera flashes, catching the sound of his startled laugh mid-escape.

in this suffocating world / i smiled for a moment at something small…

you wait for it to print and tuck it into your pocket.

baekjin doesn’t ask for a copy, but you catch him glancing over your shoulder as you look at it again later. just once. like he wants to remember what that felt like. maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing himself like that again.

the next monday at school, baekjin finds the photo booth strip tucked inside his notebook.

the following week after tutoring, you drag a grumbling baekjin to the ice cream shop next to your academy. you hand him a cone that’s too bright, too blue, too artificial-looking. he stares at it like you handed him a grenade.

“just try it,” you say, already halfway through your own.

he takes a bite, flinching with a subtle grimace, eyes narrowing at the cone.

“this tastes like melted bubblegum,” he says flatly.

you laugh, “good! you’re supposed to taste your childhood.”

he opens his mouth—maybe to say childhood?, like it’s a foreign word. baekjin doesn’t remember much sweetness in his. only the kind of silence that swallows whole, the kind of pain that you outgrow only in size. there were no ice creams or photobooths, only cracked knuckles, bitten lips, too many nights where the only thing he tasted was copper and fear.

but now, he’s still in his youth, isn’t he? he’s still got time. maybe this—this ridiculous, artificial bubblegum flavor—can be the new taste of it, maybe it can fill in the blank spaces where laughter should’ve been, maybe it can be the one thing that finally overtakes the taste of blood in his mouth and ache in his chest.

so he doesn’t complain again. just finishes the whole thing, sticky fingers and all.

it just so happens we’re facing today for the first time / even if you hate yourself more from the deeply hurtful remarks you said / let’s not worry about it…

a few weeks later, something shifts in baekjin.

he shows up to tutoring with a split lip and silence clinging to his shoulders like a second jacket. he doesn’t offer an explanation, and you don’t ask—not yet. but you notice the way his eyes stay fixed on his notes like he’s trying to disappear into the margins. how the pen in his hand presses too hard, like he’s holding back something that wants to claw out.

you don’t like the way he flinches when someone laughs too loud outside the café window. or how he doesn’t touch his drink, just lets the ice melt.

so you slam your notebook shut and say, “we’re going out.”

baekjin blinks. “…what?”

“noraebang.”

“no.”

“yes.” your voice is firm, but you smile. “you can sit in the corner and sulk if you want. but you’re not going home like this.”

he sighs like he hates that you notice things, but he follows you out the door anyway.

the karaoke room is smaller than you expected, the mic a little too echoey, the screen slightly lagging behind the beat. still, you’re already queuing up songs while baekjin stands awkwardly by the couch like he’s considering making a run for it.

“i don’t sing,” he mutters, eyes scanning the laminated songbook like it might bite.

“good thing i do,” you grin, clicking on a familiar intro—the kind of upbeat, fluttery track you know he’d never pick.

you toss him the tambourine, and he catches it without thinking. “what am i supposed to do with this?” he asks, gaze flicking up to you—quizzical, unimpressed.

“participate in your youth!” you say, already grabbing the mic as the first verse starts.

he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t leave. a minute later, he’s still there—half-heartedly tapping the tambourine against his palm as you belt out the chorus, your voice cracking with enthusiasm more than skill.

we should be solving quadratic formulas right now, he thinks. and you probably will flunk your next test at this rate. he sighs with the thought—but that also means he’ll have to tutor you again next week.

his eyes drift toward you—they don’t leave.

with our voices, wherever we are, let’s sing—cheers to youth…

baekjin doesn’t sing, that part was true. he doesn’t even hum. but there’s a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth, barely there. his eyes stay on you like the rest of the world has gone quiet.

and for once, the union feels a little less close. like in this cramped, echoey karaoke room—with you laughing off-key under dim lights—it’s somewhere far away, out of reach.

it’s raining when you step out of the karaoke room. not a drizzle—a full, angry downpour, bouncing off the pavement and pooling along the curb.

“perfect,” you mutter, tugging your bag over your shoulder. you forgot your umbrella—again—but baekjin didn’t.  he sighs, pulling out a small umbrella from his backpack. “you always forget yours.” this wasn’t the first time you forgot your umbrella.

“i like to live on the edge,” you grin, ducking under his. he stiffens a little as your shoulder brushes his.

your place is only two blocks away. you insist it’s faster than waiting, and baekjin, though visibly reluctant, walks beside you in the downpour. the umbrella doesn’t quite cover both of you. but he doesn’t complain when your shoulder brushes his, or when his other one gets soaked in the rain.

he should be with the union right now, there’s a meeting and he knows it, feels the weight of it tugging at the edges of his mind like a leash. but your warmth is close, and the rain is loud, and somehow… baekjin’s legs move before he thinks.

a few minutes later, you pause at your doorstep, rainwater slipping from your sleeves as you fumble with the key.

“your parents… probably wouldn’t want me staying,” he says, clearing his throat. his voice is steady, but his eyes flick to the street like he’s searching for a way out. he shifts back a step, fingers tightening on the umbrella still dripping at his side. “i should head out.”

but he knows it’s just an excuse. he noticed it earlier—how he softened without meaning to, how stepping inside your world felt like crossing a line he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

“i live alone,” you say, quiet but certain.

not many things surprise him, but that piece of information might have made him feel it. maybe because you always seemed like someone who’d come home to a warm meal and soft smiles, the kind of person whose energy felt… loved. lived in. he never imagined you turning the lights on to silence—never pictured you being alone in the same ways he is.

a flicker of concern bubbles in his chest—unfamiliar, uninvited, but not unwelcome.

it settles beside the rest of the feelings he hasn’t named yet.

he hesitates… then steps inside.

your apartment is small, a little cluttered, but warm. the kind of place with mismatched socks drying on the heater and cereal boxes stacked on top of the fridge. baekjin’s eyes scan the room like he’s trying to memorize it, but he doesn’t say much. just sets his shoes neatly by the door and follows you inside.

you hand him a towel. he takes it with a quiet nod, his gaze flicking toward the small, but comfortable mess of your space before he looks away.

later, he lies beside you on the floor under a ceiling of glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck up last summer. they’re uneven, a few peeling at the corners, but still glowing faintly above your heads like they’re trying their best. baekjin doesn’t ask why you put them up. but he thinks about how you probably put them up alone—no one else around to help. and for a moment, he almost can’t stop a faint grin from tugging at his lips as he imagined how clumsy you would’ve been, but it’s swallowed by the dim light and his unsaid thoughts.

the rain hasn’t let up, tapping soft against the windows like it’s afraid to interrupt. you’re both wrapped in different ends of the same blanket, quiet now. your breathing steady, his a little more uneven.

in this trivial warmth of the cozy blanket that wrapped around me / i fall asleep waiting for tomorrow again

baekjin doesn’t talk about himself, not at all. he’s the kind of boy who folds in on silence, who carries things so quietly you forget they weigh anything at all. but tonight, something in that boy shifts.

he turns toward you, eyes catching the stars for a second too long.

then, his voice comes out softly, the quietest and most hesitant you’d ever hear him speak: “i don’t think i ever let myself feel like this.”

you blink. “like what?”

he shifts his weight, a small, frustrated sigh escaping his lips. “like it’s okay to just… live like this.” he doesn’t say it outright, but you understand. his voice cracks, just barely.

you roll over to face him and your eyes meet in the dim, “it is okay, baekjin.”

he stares at you for a long moment, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to believe you.

then he exhales. “i want to hate myself a little less than yesterday.”

the loud alarm that rings every morning / i want to hate a little less than yesterday…

he doesn’t say much when he leaves in the morning. just a short nod and a glance that lingers at your door a moment longer than it should. but later, at school, you notice something new.

after a big test, maybe—one that baekjin had crushed, as usual, without breaking a sweat.

a photo strip—creased from being carried around, tucked into the clear back pocket of his phone case. you in heart-shaped sunglasses and his startled smile, next to his test marked 100.

he doesn’t hide it when you see, doesn’t pretend it’s not there.

“you worked hard,” you say softly, voice quieter than usual.

and you’re not just talking about the test score, not really. it’s the way he’s finally letting himself live—if only for a few moments here and there. letting himself be a kid, even if it’s just with you. that’s the secret you hold dearly.

his gaze shifts, and his chest lifts a little at your words. he knows exactly what you mean. it’s not about the paper, not at all.

“it wasn’t easy,” he echoes, voice low, as if the weight of it hasn’t quite settled in yet. “but it wasn’t so bad.”

as i’m heading home, ‘you worked hard’ / that it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t so bad…

and maybe that’s how it starts—an ice cream cone, a bad karaoke duet, and a quiet night under plastic stars.

baekjin doesn’t let people in easily. but after your tutoring sessions, it slowly becomes routine. a few steps slower on the way home, maybe a shared drink at the corner store with his hand brushing yours once, then not pulling away the next time.

he starts showing up without being asked, and starts staying a little longer each time. and eventually, you stop counting how many times he lets himself be part of your world.

and then one afternoon—weeks later, a sky still pale from winter light—you pull out a paper you’ve been hiding all day: a perfect score. red ink, circled on the 100. you hold it out to him sheepishly while he lounges on the floor of your apartment, flipping through a children’s comic book like it’s riveting literature.

“what’s this?” he asks, taking it. his eyes scan the paper, and for the first time since you’ve known him, his eyes that usually held such a stoic, piercing gaze widens, genuinely stunned.

“you—” his voice breaks off, and then suddenly he’s up, paper still in hand, arms wrapping tight around your waist. you let out a startled laugh as your feet lift off the ground.

“you actually did it,” he says, half in disbelief, half in something that sounds suspiciously like pride. “you—god. you did it.”

you blink down at him, never before seeing him so animted. “was that… enthusiasm? from na baekjin?”

he doesn’t let you go, just presses his forehead to your shoulder with a quiet laugh.

“shut up.” but his smile doesn’t fade—not for a long time.

everything will be good, because it’s me…

and from that moment on, na baekjin finally, fully lets you in.

not just as the person who makes him laugh at photo booths or forces him into glittery karaoke rooms, or as a distraction from the union, from the weight he always carries so carefully on his own.

but as something more.

you become his outlet not just for stolen youth, but for something completely new to him—affection.

the kind he never knew how to ask for. the kind that’s soft and lingering, tucked into things like packed snacks on long study days, or the way he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you even ask.

na baekjin doesn’t say much, he was never the one for long explanations or complicated conversations.

but when he starts reaching for your hand without thinking, when he leans in a little closer on the bus station as you wait for your bus home, when he lets his gaze linger just a beat longer than it should—you know.

you’re not just something he’s letting himself want, you’re something he’s letting himself have. in the midst of re-discovering his youth, na baekjin discovers you.

cheers to youth

note: i had wayyy too much fun writing this, and creating the gifs !! do you notice how the spark gets stronger? i hope everyone appreciates this little glimpse into what life was like for our before the storm couple. hopefully this healed something in the readers of before the storm, lol. consider this my apology for the pain that bts caused >~<

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[iwillstabyou]

TMAGP 31 - A Computer Nerd’s Breakdown Of The Error Logs

It’s round 3, bitches! (tumblr crashed twice when I was writing this so I’ve had to start again multiple times. I do in fact see the irony, considering the subject matter)

I was listening to TMAGP 31 and as a computer nerd, oh my god those error messages just HIT DIFFERENT. There are so many subtle details hiding in those lines that a typical non-computery person would probably miss, so I feel it is my duty to explain them and their possible implications. So that’s why I’ve decided to fully break down each part of the error report, complete with what they could potentially suggest — think of this as “the TMAGP theorist’s guide to deciphering Chester’s yapping”

So without further ado, let’s get this party started…

(NOTE: lines from the transcript are in red, ‘translations’ are in purple, jmj specific stuff is is green, explanations are in black)

Starting off with Category: fatal programmer error, notice it says programmer, not program. There is nothing wrong with the code - the user has truly fucked up. Uh oh, Colin has made a big mistake…

Also, clever double meaning here with the word fatal. Obviously we know it was fatal to Colin (RIP king 🥲), but error logs also typically have a criticality level describing if immediate action needs to be taken. There are 6 commonly used levels, with the most critical being, yep you guessed it, ‘fatal’ - this means that whatever Colin was doing was a critical threat to the system. In other words, Colin had figured out the problem and was dangerously close to fixing it so Freddie just went “oh shit, we need to deal with this guy quickly or we are in serious trouble.”

Then we’ve got the next line, attempted host compromise (the Errno611 isn’t significant - error codes vary from system to system). When it comes to network terminology, a host is basically just any device on the network, so in full this line basically means “somebody’s tried to damage part of the network.” Importantly, “host” seems to suggest that the computers aren’t the source of this evil but merely a vessel for it. Freddie is just the mouthpiece for these supernatural forces - a bit like a non-sentient (as far as we know…) avatar. Whatever these forces are, they didn’t come from within/they weren’t created by Freddie.

(NOTE: I will come back to jmj=null in a bit)

The program traceback, Traceback <module> by extension BECHER, is rather interesting. A network extension is a way of providing network access to remote users (think along the lines of a VPN) by creating a personal direct ‘route’ to the network. Therefore if it’s the subject of an error report, it means there’s been an issue with data transmission along that path. So this bit means “there’s a problem with this specific network route that’s allocated to Colin.” However, the darker implication here is that Colin is an extension of Freddie. Although he wasn’t initially a part of all of this, he’s become tangled in the web (no pun intended) to the point that he and Freddie are inseparably intertwined. The OIAR employees may be able to quit their jobs, but they’ll still be a part of Freddie…

There isn’t much to say about Host=self.host in this context. It’s just convention when it comes to object oriented programming. Not important here.

Extension BECHER compromised isn’t just saying “there’s an issue here.” It’s saying “there’s an issue here that is a serious threat to network operation.” In other words, Freddie’s going “uh oh. Colin needs to be dealt with.”

The next bit is pretty self explanatory. I really don’t think I need to explain what <hardware damage_crowbar> means for you guys to understand. This bit made me laugh so hard. One thing that’s interesting though is that it gave it a DPHW, so Freddie processed this like it was an incident… Perhaps this fully confirms that the ‘thing’ controlling Freddie is of the same origin as the cases - it’s not something else entirely?

And now onto Administrator privilege revoked. This was the moment when I fully realised “oh no. Colin is fucked,” because any control that Colin may have had over the situation is now gone for good. Freddie’s basically just said “fuck you Colin. You’re not in charge anymore. I am.”

As you can probably guess, Unexpected data isolated/resolved just means that the crowbar’s been dealt with and the program can run as usual. Similarly, the Colin threat is fixed now he’s not an administrator i.e. he can no longer control the system. However, it then gets weird with Independent operation permissions revoked… It’s not saying Colin can’t use the network independently, it’s saying that Colin can’t be used independently of the network. Remember what I was saying earlier about Colin being a part of Freddie? Yeah, well now he purely is a part of Freddie. They’re turning our boy into data!

NOTE: I know in the audio it said everything was discarded but I’m going by the transcript. Idk why they’re different

You know it’s a bad sign when you hear Re config: self.host - Freddie’s evolving. The network is literally reconfiguring itself to now include Colin. And then Freddie goes through each of his alchemical elements one by one and fucking deletes them! How rude. You go and eat this man only to spit everything out!? I guess he’s feeling generous though, because he decides to keep the sulphur, which in alchemy, refers to the soul… If this isn’t just a coincidence, then that means Colin’s actual soul has been uploaded to Freddie. That could be really cool. And messed up. But mostly cool.

Starting with the final line, everyone knows what New administrator permissions assigned means, but we don’t know yet who they’ve been assigned to. Maybe it’s Gwen? Maybe it’s a new character? Maybe there is no system administrator anymore? It’s a mystery.

Now that’s out the way, let’s get on to the real juicy stuff…

The top few lines are pretty simple - it’s Freddie’s way of saying “Colin was a problem. We ate him. Now he’s not a problem anymore.” The next line, however, is a reminder that none of this is simple” - .jmj error not resolved. There it is again. The infamous jmj error. What does it mean? Jon? Martin? Jonah? Is that you???? Nobody knows. One thing we do know though is that jmj=null (from the start of the error log). Now when it comes to interpreting values, null is weird. It’s not zero, it’s not empty, it’s sort of nothing but it’s not nothing. It’s just null. It means no value, but it doesn’t mean that the variable doesn’t have a value (if that makes any sense to you guys???). Ooh I think I know how to explain it?? Imagine you’re Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute and you’re digitising some archived ID photos when you find one without a name. The recorded name in the database would be null - you can’t put anything in particular, but that doesn’t mean the person in the photo doesn’t have a name. I guess null means unknown or missing here. So basically, what jmj=null means is that the jmj is unknown and that is a problem because it can’t get ignored/it is important. So what it’s basically saying is that jmj is a mystery not only to us, but also to Freddie.

Take a look at Data integration cycle ongoing <0.02%> - Data integration is the process of combining data from multiple sources into a single source of truth. There are 4 stages: data ingestion, cleaning, transformation, and unification. Thanks to the whole Colin ordeal, I’m sure you are all quite familiar with these stages by now (and that, students, is what we call a case study!). The peculiar thing here though is that we’ve just witnessed most of the data integration cycle - surely it should be higher than 0.02%? Yes, that’s correct. It should be far higher than that. It makes no sense. UNLESS this isn’t about Colin. Most of Colin’s data has probably already integrated. This is something else entirely - something so much bigger and foreign than these computers were designed for (the only comparison I can think of is trying to run the sims 4 with all expansion packs on a 15 year old laptop. It really shouldn’t work, and it probably won’t, but it’s gonna try regardless). This seems to follow on nicely from the jmj=null comments above, because Freddie is clearly struggling to integrate something (hence System function margins down to 82%), and when you try to read data that hasn’t been fully integrated with the system, you end up with a lot of missing & unknown values. Sound familiar? Yep, that’s right - until more data is synchronised, many values will be null, like our good friend jmj. Why is it taking so long to integrate jmj? We don’t know. Perhaps its origins are so supernatural and otherworldly that it’s simply not tangible enough for Freddie to process it? That’s what I think at the moment, at least.

So yeah, that’s my line by line analysis done! Hope you found that helpful/interesting. This podcast is so well written I’m actually going insane! Jonny and Alex, you are the guys of all time! As I’ve already said, feel free to expand on any of this - I’d love to hear your theories

Signed, your friendly neighbourhood computer nerd who is very autistic about TMAGP :)

[threadbearsweater]

if music be the food of love, play on

Nanami Kento x reader. You're the proud owner of a new music store that just opened up beside Kento's Bakery, a beloved oasis on a busy street of a quaint small town. Nanami is cold and unwelcoming when you first meet, but as the weeks pass, he discovers that there's a world of music and happiness right at his doorstep.

Tags: bakery owner Nanami, female musician reader (main instrument is piano); lots of technical talk about music; lots of food mentions (it's a bakery au, afterall); fluff, Nanami doesn't have a sorcerer background, Nobara and Haibara as supporting characters, first kisses, little bit of pining, smidge of angst for Nanami's back story. I've been nursing this for months and finally found the time to finish it today. Before you ask about a part two, please know that it's being considered, though it will be slow based on how long it took me to write this. (If this seems familiar, you're not crazy. This is a re-upload from a regretfully deactivated blog.)

See end notes for details on the music mentioned throughout the story and an explanation of the title. 6.5k words. Dividers by the lovely @/cafekitsune.

While most of the city is still fast asleep, Nanami Kento unlocks the front door of his bakery and steps inside, ready for another day of creating the neighborhood's best loved bread and pastries. He works alone until his front of house staff arrives a little before 6:00 a.m., when it's time to open to the public. Every morning is the same– by the time he flips the little sign on the door from Closed to Open, there's a case full of fresh baked pastries that have each been handcrafted with loving skill by Nanami's hands. It's meditative for him– ingredients, measurements, time, routine, a well-loved butcher’s block table, intoxicating aromas and his favorite music playing on an old record player. He has an affinity for the classics: Vivaldi, Brahms, Chopin, Tchaikovsky. But on weekend mornings, when the strict weekday regimen is more relaxed and free, it’s jazz. 

The storefront is small, the floors made of old pine planks that groan underfoot, and there's room for one small table for two in front of the window that faces the street. There are a few framed prints of famous artworks on the walls, a well-loved spider plant hanging in the corner, and a small wooden shelf with the daily newspaper and a few old cookbooks. Behind the cash register is a cutaway window where Nanami's kitchen is nestled just beyond. Customers come from miles around at all different times of the day– the morning commuters who build an extra fifteen minutes into their routine to stop in for a cup of coffee to go and a savory pastry wrapped in brown paper, the afternoon crowd who call to order sandwiches ahead for themselves and their coworkers to eat in the park on their lunch break, the evening crowd that stops to grab a fresh loaf of sourdough or rye to take home for dinner. By the time the last customer has left for the day, the case is empty and the cash register is full. An overnight baker comes in around 8 p.m. to begin prepping and proofing for the next morning, and Kento departs for home.

He appreciates the routine. It's predictable and comforting, and he thrives on knowing that he's still making a difference in the world– or, at least, in his little neighborhood. Owning a bakery is not a glamorous existence, but it’s honest work. His staff is competent and efficient, and he pays them fairly. He’s never failed a health department inspection– his kitchen is pristine and organized, with fresh ingredients and well-kept equipment being of utmost priority. It took him months to jump through all the hoops; health, utility, and zoning inspectors paraded through the store, nitpicking at every small detail until it’s all up to code. Nanami had little patience for all the red tape, but he held his tongue and signed all the papers and paid all the fees. He hired and trained a handful of workers and opened for business on a sleepy Thursday morning.

By the time the little music store comes to life next door, he’s been in business for over two years. And he’s thriving. Amid the other small businesses– a florist, an artist co-op, a jeweler, a few specialty clothing boutiques, a candy shop– he’s respected and loved, though the rest of the owners agree that he’s a bit of a grump. Hard to talk to, rarely smiles or makes small talk. Perhaps none of them have ever really given him a chance to say anything. Or perhaps Kento doesn’t really want to say anything to them. For all intents and purposes, he seems happy with his lot.

You purchase the store next door to Kento’s at the end of September. It takes a few weeks for the finer details to be secured, but the day you move in, it’s sunny and unseasonably warm. Nanami watches from behind the counter as the box truck you rented pulls up and takes up two parking spaces in front of his bakery. The dough he’s kneading bears the brunt of his frustration as he continues to watch.

You and two men get out; you survey your parking job and shrug your shoulders as if to say this will have to do. The truck is large, and there isn’t a lot of room in the alley behind the store, so it's really your only option. With a worried nibble of your fingernail, you turn and look in the window of the bakery to see if anyone’s watching. The glare on the glass makes it hard for you to tell, but Nanami watches you with a deep frown as you motion for your movers to start unloading the truck. For a moment, it looks like you’re going to come inside, but you change your mind mid step and go to unlock the door to your own store instead.

Nanami finishes the dough he’s working, dusts off his hands on his apron, and decides it’s time to confront you.

“Mr. Kento, is everything okay?” the counter attendant asks, concern etched into her features. “Are you–”

“I’ll be right back,” he says, without making eye contact. Onto the sidewalk he steps and crosses his arms, looking from your giant truck and over to your store, mouth slightly open, brows arched. He’s clearly annoyed, and he’s about to make it known when you bounce over to him, extending a hand in greeting.

“Hi! You must be Kento. I’ve never been to your bakery, but I’ve heard wonderful things.” You tell him your name, even though he doesn’t ask. And when he doesn’t take your hand, you sheepishly pull yours away, feeling a little deflated.

“You’re taking up two parking spaces.” It’s all he offers. 

You scratch the back of your head and huff a little laugh. “Yeah, sorry about that. The alley is so narrow, and I wasn’t sure if–”

“I receive deliveries out back twice a week, in a truck of a similar size. None of those drivers have ever had a problem fitting.”

Nodding, you stammer an apology, then call out to your movers. “We can park out back, you guys! He says there’s plenty of room!”

Nanami seems to relax, but only a little. “This is customer parking.”

You scoff, but you feel your face grow hot. This definitely isn’t the way you’d hoped to meet your next door business owner. “Look, I said I was sorry, okay? I’m not sure what else you want me to do.” As you start to say you’d like to buy something from him, the truck roars to life and you snap your lips shut with a short nod. Pleased, Nanami retreats back inside just as one of his customers pulls in to claim one of the spaces your truck left.

It takes hours to unload the truck, and days after that to sort through everything you’ve brought with you. You don’t hear another word from the baker next door, and you’re quite content with being left alone to organize your store the way you envisioned. There’s much more than you’d realized– stacks of sheet music, instruments you’d picked up at auctions and thrift stores that needed a little TLC, boxes of records and CD’s and even a few old cassette tapes, and an old upright piano that had been yours since the tender age of four. Your grandmother taught you to play on this piano, and now, it’s your turn to pass on the skill. Deep down, you know it’s a little crazy and overly-ambitious to open a music store and attempt to teach piano lessons, but you want to try. If worse comes to worst, you could always hire someone to tend to the store while you teach.

As the weeks go by and autumn settles in, word of your shop travels through town. You aren’t terribly busy yet, but you have a few regulars from the local university who like to raid your record collection from time to time, and you teach about a dozen piano students on a weekly basis. There’s generally a lull in business in the early afternoon, so on a particularly cool October day, you decide to lock up for a few minutes and head next door. You haven’t seen Nanami since the first time you met, but you’re hoping he doesn’t kick you out when he sees you at his counter.

A little bell above the door signals your arrival. Inside the bakery, it’s warm and inviting and smells like coffee and your grandmother’s kitchen. You order a drink and a croissant and make small talk with the counter staff. She’s young and smiling, seemingly happy to be at work as she goes about making your coffee order. You look around, noting the finer details of the store– the handwritten tags on the different varieties of bread, the old world feel and warm, yellow lighting. For someone whose first impression left you a little disenchanted, he certainly knows how to create a charming atmosphere.

As you go to leave, you hear your name called from the kitchen. You turn around just as you tear off a piece of the croissant to stuff in your mouth and meet Nanami's eyes, chewing in wide-eyed wonder. The flaky, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth texture of the croissant makes you want to moan in delight. But you're also gobsmacked that he remembers your name.

You swallow, then offer him a wide smile and a thumbs up from the hand that holds your coffee. "Kento! Nice to see you! I didn't know you were here today," you demure. 

He is not impressed. "I'm here every day."

"Oh, right– being the owner and all."

"How do you like it?" he asks, giving a subtle incline of his head toward the pastry in your hand.

"Wha– oh, this?" You purse your lips and kiss the air. "Delectable. Delightful." You bite off another piece, and some of the flaky dough flutters across your cheek. "I should have come over weeks ago."

Something in his demeanor softens. It's so subtle that you'd probably have missed it if you weren't watching him so closely, anticipating his next move. "I wondered if you ever would, considering our first encounter."

You scoff. "That's old news. I was over it an hour after it happened."

There's a hint of a smile that lifts the corner of his mouth, and he pushes his glasses up with a floured finger. "Yes, I suppose it is."

For a brief moment, he considers asking about how business has been going for you, but ultimately decides against it. You take a sip of coffee as the cashier looks between the two of you, busying herself with wiping down the counter while trying to appear nonchalant. "Well," you begin, hooking your thumb over your shoulder, "I should probably head back over. I have a student coming soon. Nice talking to you, Kento!"

His interest is piqued. "Student?"

You nod, chewing on another mouthful. "Mm-hm! I teach piano lessons."

A golden brow raises, and his brown eyes gleam behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "I had no idea."

You laugh. "That's why you should come and visit me! I haven't had the most warm welcome in this little neighborhood, and you're partly to blame for that."

"I thought you said that was old news," he deadpans. 

You throw him a wink and use your elbow to open the door. "Later, Kento."

You visit once or twice a week, then every day. It becomes part of your morning routine to visit, and you know it's no good for your wallet, but you can’t resist. Eventually, the counter staff stops charging you for coffee. “It’s on the house,” Nanami calls from his station one morning. You leave an extra tip in the little jar by the cash register, and he scowls at you. You laugh and wave, then head back to your store, pleased that you seem to know just how to get under his skin.

You bring him a record next time you come. Vivaldi– The Four Seasons. You’d been at an auction over the weekend and thought of him when you found it. You slide it across the counter and tip your head toward the grumpy baker in the back. “For your boss,” you tell the cashier, whose name you’ve learned is Nobara and that she’s in school for graphic design but she’s been shadowing Kento and learning the art of baking. 

“He won’t take it,” she whispers, though her mouth betrays her when she grins with you in a conspiratorial sort of way. She slips it under the counter and leans forward, lowering her voice even further. “I’ll make sure he hears it, though.”

You sip your coffee and meander toward the window while Nobara sneaks her way toward the record player that’s playing some pretentious Bach etudes. She rolls her eyes and pretends to yawn, then winks at you and lifts the needle. 

“What happened?” As soon as the music stops, Kento calls from the kitchen, though you can’t see him from where you stand. You and Nobara share a wide-eyed moment while she slides the Vivaldi record out of its sleeve.

“Record’s over!” she replies. “Just getting another one out.”

You stifle a giggle behind your palm as she drops the needle. A few revolutions of static fill the small space, then the triumphant fanfare of Spring makes your heart leap with familiar excitement. 

Kento steps out from the kitchen, dusting his hands on his apron. It’s only the second time you’ve seen the entirety of him, as most of the time his lower half is obscured by the wall behind the cash register. He’s taller than you realized, with broad shoulders that strain against the cotton of his button up. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and you can’t help but notice the well-defined muscle in his forearms and the thickness of his fingers. He looks from you to Nobara, then back to you. He’s not amused, but he isn’t exactly mad, either. You wonder if this guy has ever smiled at all.

“Vivaldi,” he says. “This isn’t my record.”

“It is now,” you say. Nobara grabs a broom and sweeps under one of the tables, and Kento steps a little closer to you. The music plays on, and you can’t tell if he’s listening and doesn’t want to ruin the vibe or if he truly is at a loss for words.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks, reaching in his back pocket, presumably for his wallet.

You shake your head and smile at him. “It’s on the house. Now we’re even.”

“I didn’t realize you were in my debt.”

“Coffee. I haven’t paid for a cup in almost two weeks. I wanted to give you something in return.”

“That’s not necessary,” he says, and if you didn’t know any better (and you really don’t) you’d think he was offended. He pulls a couple of bills from his wallet and holds them out to you. “Really. The coffee isn’t a big deal.”

You take a couple of steps backward until your shoulder butts into the door. The little bell above you jingles merrily. “Neither is the record!” And before he can say another word, you’re trotting back to your territory, leaving him with the triumphant sounds of Spring and your mischievous smile emblazoned on his psyche.

He knocks on your door just after you've locked up on a cold, rainy November afternoon. 

"We're closed!" you shout from the back, not bothering to see who's at the door.

"It's Kento," he calls, fitting as much of his body as he can under the awning to avoid getting any wetter than he already is.

You smile to yourself and go to let him in, sweeping your arm in a grand gesture. "Welcome to my humble shop, good sir. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

He doesn't even crack a smile, but steps over the threshold and dries his shoes on the welcome mat. For a moment, he doesn't speak, only looks around at your haphazard organization of goods. You watch him curiously, filing away a few pieces of sheet music before fully turning to face him.

“How do you like it?” you ask.

“Quaint,” he answers, not meeting your gaze. You notice for the first time that he’s carrying a brown paper bag, and he approaches you, wordlessly holding it out for you to take. 

“Aw, thanks, Kento.” You accept it with a smile and stick your nose down in the bag, inhaling deeply. 

“Rosemary,” he offers when he sees you lift a brow, trying to place the scent. 

“It smells incredible.” 

“You give piano lessons.” It’s a statement, not a question. You chuckle lightly at his abrupt change of subject. Either he’s incredibly socially awkward, or he doesn’t waste time on trivial small talk. You think it’s probably the latter.

“Right. We talked about it before. Why? Do you have a niece or something that wants to learn?”

He cocks his head at you, still expressionless. “No. I do.”

THe silence between you stretches on for just a beat too long, making the air tense and awkward. Nanami’s eyes don’t leave your face, and you find yourself stuttering out some kind of affirmative sound.

“Do you have an opening in your schedule?”

“I have a few!” you say. “What’s a good time for you?”

Nanami looks at his watch. “There’s no time like the present. Is this time of day usually free for you?”

“I–” You laugh sheepishly, but gesture for him to follow you to the back of the store where your little, slightly out of tune upright piano sits, surrounded by shelves of method books, theory worksheets, and volumes upon volumes of music through the ages. “I usually use this time to practice my own stuff, but I could make time for you.”

He slides easily onto the old wooden bench and inches it back, away from the keys, to accommodate his long legs. To say you’re surprised when he begins to play scales would be an understatement. He’s a little clumsy, using the wrong fingers on the wrong keys some of the time, but he keeps a steady tempo as his hands move up and down the octaves. 

“You didn’t tell me you knew how to play,” you murmur, sitting in the chair you have placed to his right. Your teaching chair. Your newest student watches his hands, a lock of his golden hair falling over his forehead as he tilts his chin downward. You cross your legs and smile fondly. 

"I took lessons as a child," he says quietly. "But I didn't keep up with it once I went to high school." He stops abruptly, then turns to you. "I'd like to refresh, though. Maybe learn a new piece or two."

"Of course!" From one of the shelves to your right, you pull out a volume of simplified classical pieces, thumbing through until you find one suitable. You lean forward and place it in front of him. "How's your sight reading?"

"Poor," he frowns, but he begins to pluck out the melody line, slow and deliberate. 

"That's your assignment this week, then. I'll give you a book for home practice, and when you come back next week, be prepared to play one or two songs for me. Focus on the mechanics, the fingering, the tempo. We'll add in dynamics when you feel you've got it."

He continues to play, his left hand pressing against the pages to keep them from falling shut. "What's your fee?"

You answer without hesitation. "Bread."

He raises a brow as if to ask if you're serious. "Bread?"

You nod. "Bread. One loaf per week. Doesn't matter what kind, though I'm partial to a well-made focaccia."

"Bread is hardly sufficient for your services."

"I'm trying to be neighborly here, Kento. Indulge me."

"Fine. One loaf per week. And I'll buy my own sheet music."

"That's not necessary, I have–"

"I'll buy my own sheet music," he reiterates. You snap your mouth shut and give him a swift nod. 

If his demeanor as a student is anything like his demeanor as a business owner, you're in for one hell of a ride.

The days grow short as winter settles in. With the holidays just around the corner, Nanami's bakery grows busier by the day with custom orders for parties and other social events, and you're busy preparing students for their first studio recital. Despite his busy schedule, he still visits you every Thursday afternoon and astounds you with the progress he makes. You wonder how he finds the time to practice, especially now, during his busiest season.

You've learned a few things about him during your time together. He's not much of a talker, preferring to keep his private life private. But when you do manage to get a little bit of personal information out of him, he gets a faraway, melancholy look in his eye, like maybe some part of him is stuck in those memories of a life long past. He’s divorced. It was a childless, loveless marriage, one where his ex-wife chased more after her own pleasure than their mutual enjoyment in more ways than one. He worked for years as a financial advisor, and when the divorce settlement came, she took her share of their assets and moved across the continent. He soon began to feel suffocated by the endless hours he spent at the office, so he took up baking as a hobby. What began as a way to distract himself from loneliness turned into a lucrative business opportunity; he opened the bakery with part of his retirement fund and never looked back.

His favorite composer is Beethoven. He appreciates the moodiness of the music, the complex and haunting melodies that seem to speak to a part of his soul he's buried long ago. You want to ask him why he never pursued music, but he beats you to the punch. 

"There was a time as a child that I dreamed of being a concert pianist," he says quietly. He's playing the same two measures of a Beethoven piece, just the left hand, committing the sequence to muscle memory. 

You hum and tilt your head. "What happened to that dream?"

He grunts, frustrated, though with the passage of music or his memory, you couldn't say. "My father. 'You won't make any money as a musician', he'd tell me. I said I didn't care about the money, so he found other ways to discourage me."

You're angry at his father on his behalf. It's true, the life of a musician isn't all glitz and glamor, but it's fulfilling work. The friendships formed and the memories of performances and late night jam sessions are worth more than any measly paycheck you might receive. It might be a romanticized way to think about it, but it's not unreasonable to find a way to make a modest living from music.

"So you studied–"

"Finance. Numbers. Spreadsheets and accounting. Math and music aren't really all that different when you break it down," he says. "Of course, you can't put emotion into algebraic equations," he scoffs. He lifts his hand from the keyboard and turns to look at you. "But you can with bread."

You nod. "It's true. I'm sorry you didn't have anyone to encourage you to follow your heart."

He pauses, lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something retaliatory; but he sighs instead. "So am I."

You're struck suddenly with an idea, and nearly knock over your chair to open one of your cabinets. Nanami watches carefully as your fingers flip through different books, your eyes alight with excitement and maybe a smidge of mischief. "Found it!" You nudge him with the book as you sit on the edge of the bench to his right. "Scoot."

"What's this?" he asks as you set the music in front of the two of you. 

"Play this with me," you say. You grab the book and bend the spine so that it lays a little more flat. "Look. It's in C Major. It's not fast. And your part is simple!" When he looks at you, skeptical, you laugh. "It's sight reading practice! Come on Kento, don't be scared."

It isn't the music that he's afraid of. It's the proximity of you, sitting mere inches away from him on the same bench. It's your shoulder rubbing against his, the light floral scent of your perfume, the way the setting sun slants in from the front window and makes your eyes shine. He swallows thickly and tears his gaze away from you to study the music, ghosting his hands over the keys without actually pressing them.

"I'll take care of page turns. You control the pedal. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," he says.

"Alright. On my count. One-two-three-four–"

It isn't perfect by a long shot. You get through the first few pages without much difficulty, but Nanami's capacity for sight reading isn't quite up to par, and he grows frustrated that he can't keep up with you. He stops after an unsuccessful attempt at a set of quick sixteenth notes and shakes his head. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I need more practice," he murmurs, watching your hands as you continue playing. 

"You were doing fine!"

"Not as good as you."

You laugh, incredulous. "Kento, I've got years of practice on you! Give yourself a break!" You swat playfully at his shoulder and start to slide away from the bench, but he takes hold of your wrist. You freeze, and the smile falls from your lips when you see the way he's looking at you. 

"I'll pay you for the extra time if I can stay a little longer." I want to get this right. For you.

When you settle back in beside him, he releases his grip on your wrist. The loss of warmth and pressure takes your breath away. Your tongue feels to heavy for your mouth when you agree to let him stay. "You don't have to pay me. Let's work this through."

You spend the next hour writing in numbers on the sheet music to guide him on which fingers to use on which keys, which passages are important to the call and response with your part, where to pause, where to speed up. The piece in its entirety is long; four movements, a total performance time of over forty minutes, but you plan to concentrate only on the first. Nanami is attentive and asks plenty of relevant questions, but as the evening draws on, you find it hard to concentrate on the music. Stifling a yawn with the back of your hand, you glance at the old grandfather clock that stands near the back door. 

"I think that will give you enough to do this week, don't you think?" In the beat of silence that follows your question, your stomach gurgles. Embarrassed, you rub a hand over your abdomen. "Sorry."

Nanami closes the book and checks his watch. "When did you last eat?" he asks.

"I had an early lunch. Breakfast. Brunch?" You giggle at yourself and shrug. "A while ago," you admit.

He's at war with himself, and it's written all over his face. There's guilt for keeping you so late, annoyance that you didn't stop teaching him at a reasonable time. There's a thankfulness in the way his brows knit together, though, and a tender admiration for how dedicated you are. He also wants to take you to dinner, but he doesn't want it to be a date, and he doesn't want you to think that he's asking you out because he doesn't want to overstep any sort of student-teacher relationship.

But he owns a bakery that's stocked with food, whose employees have long gone home for the evening. 

"Come with me." 

You begin to protest. You know what he's going to offer, but you're tired and a little frazzled, and you know you won't be good company for much longer. "Kento, I appreciate it, but–"

"Let me make you something." 

You sigh, but your stomach has more to say. 

Nanami lifts a brow and quirks up the corner of his mouth. "Come on," he says, "before I change my mind."

The sidewalk is dusted with a glittering swirl of snow when you step outside and lock up. The street in front of your shops is barren and dark, save for a lone, flickering street lamp and a biting cold winter wind. You wish you'd thought to grab your coat (or at least a scarf), but Nanami is quick to unlock his door and usher you inside, his hand hovering near the small of your back, barely touching. You're immediately thankful for the warmth of his bakery. Even now, with the ovens off and only the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the atmosphere warm and welcoming. You roll some of the tension out of your shoulders and look around while he goes straight to the record player and puts on an album. This one is different than his usual fare; the crackle of the needle on vinyl satisfies you in a way you can't explain, and soon you're surprised to hear the croon of Louis Armstrong.

"I didn't take you for a jazz fan," you muse, following him behind the counter. You feel like you're being let in on one of the world's best kept secrets, like you really shouldn't be here, even though you were invited– no, told– to come. Nanami pulls out a stool and instructs you to sit, and you do, though you're itching to help in some way.

"Sure you don't need me to do anything?" 

He looks at you over the rim of his glasses, then uses his index finger to push them up the bridge of his nose. You take that as a no, so you settle onto the stool and listen to the music while he works.

"You know, for it to be a real exchange of services, you should teach me how to bake." 

He continues to assemble two sandwiches with cold cuts of meat and fresh tomato and some kind of pesto spread that makes your mouth water. The sound of the serrated edge of a knife cutting through a loaf of crusty bread makes your stomach growl again. Nanami scoffs. "I'm not a good teacher."

"Bullshit. I bet you're amazing."

"I'm not patient. I thought you'd be able to figure that out from the way I study piano." He sets a plate in front of you, then pulls out another stool, settling in adjacent from you at the other side of the prep table. You wonder if it's not customary for him to eat here. Something tells you that he likes to keep this space pristine when he's not using it for its intended purpose, but you choose to ignore it. 

"You've got to have a little patience stored in there somewhere." You point to his heart and smile. "Doesn't bread take hours from start to finish? Pastries, too? And pies, and cookies and stuff?"

"Cookies don't take hours," he says. "But you do have a point with the bread and pastries. If you really want to learn, I'll teach you. But not tonight." He nods toward the sandwich. "Eat. I know you're hungry."

You eat. The first bite is a little piece of heaven; you expected nothing less, based on the other things you've eaten from his bakery, but this is on another level. Maybe it's because you haven't eaten in hours, or maybe it's because you're exhausted. Maybe it's because the man sitting with you made it for you and you didn't have to cook or decide what kind of takeout to get, but you'd swear it to be the best sandwich you've had in your life. 

You don't talk much between bites, and neither does he. He, too, seems exhausted by the work he put in, but not in a way that has him feeling defeated. It's a sense of accomplishment, a tired sort of pride that comes from concentrating hard on a project that means something to him. You let the music fill the silence, you sip a cup of fresh-brewed coffee (even though you know you'll regret drinking caffeine so late), you let your spine curve as you lean on the table, feeling full and satisfied.

You offer to help him clean up. He insists that you leave it, that it's late and you should go. You pick up your plate anyway and stick out your tongue as you dance away from him and over to the sink. He grabs your wrist for the second time tonight and you look at his hand, then up at him as he tugs you gently toward him, close enough so that he can take the plate from you with his other hand. The fluorescent lighting does little to conceal his expression; a lock of his hair falls over one eye, where you see the dark half-circles in the skin underneath. He's tired. And it's not just because he spent the evening poring over music, nor is it because of the hours he keeps. You think he's just perpetually tired from the hand that life has dealt him, and you wish in that moment that you could help him rest. 

"I said I've got it," he murmurs, and you suddenly realize you're closer to him than you'd thought. So close, in fact, that you feel the warmth of his breath across your cheek when he sighs at your stubbornness. There's barely an inch between your chest and his, and you catch yourself staring at his neck, wondering idly what it might feel like to run your nails along the stubble on his jaw.

You whisper, "Okay." Your lips feel dry, so you wet them with your tongue; it's an unconscious reflex, but when you see Nanami's eyes flit to your mouth and his cheeks bloom with color, you realize that he reads it in an entirely different way.

Not that you mind. 

He sets your plate in the sink, never letting go of your wrist as he pulls you in even closer. He breathes through his mouth, softly, and he uses his other hand to tilt your chin upward, honey brown eyes dancing across your face. You search his face in kind; your heart is in your throat, and you feel his energy radiating all around you. Testing the waters a bit, you lean in further until the tip of your nose nudges his cheek and he closes his eyes as his hand slips around your waist.

He can't breathe when your lips touch his. You're so tentative and soft, plush silk that presses against his mouth and makes him yearn for more of you right away. There's something otherworldly that happens in that moment; you've shared kisses with a handful of people in your life, but none have ever felt quite like this. You think about the romance books that you read as a teen, where the kiss would be described as electric, charged, all-consuming, like some kind of magic spell was cast over the characters and they knew in an instant that they were meant to be. 

You knew how foolish it was to believe in those kind of stories, yet here you were, standing in the middle of Nanami's kitchen, kissing him while he kissed you back, with soft jazz floating on the air, your fingers tracing across his jaw just as you'd daydreamed about only moments ago. His kiss is slow and deliberate, his tongue gentle and languid as it passes over yours and touches the corner of your mouth as if he's savoring the taste of you.

You're first to pull back, your head light, your chest fluttering as you take in a gulp of precious air. Nanami's forehead rests against yours, fingers pressed lightly against the pulse at your neck. 

"You should go now," he whispers, though it's the last thing in the world he wants you to do. It's dangerous for you to stay. He isn't sure he'll be able to control himself much longer in your presence. 

You nod and give his waist a squeeze as you pull away, and the fatigue of the day begins to set in. Nanami thumbs at your bottom lip before letting you go, watching as you clumsily fumble for your keys in the pocket of your jeans. 

The back door opens suddenly, bringing in a gust of cold air and shimmering snow flurries, and you both jolt as the night baker steps inside. He, too, widens his eyes as he sees the two of you standing there. Nanami cards a hand through his hair and clears his throat while you fish out your keys, laughing nervously.

"Mr. Kento! You're here late," the baker says, looking between the two of you as it dawns on him what may have just happened. 

"We were– I was just leaving," Nanami says. "Let me wash up, then I'll be out of your hair."

The baker smiles. "Nah, I got it. Go on home. You look tired."

Nanami begins to protest, then stops himself. "Thank you, Haibara. I'll see you in the morning."

He guides you out through the front, stopping to turn off the record player. Outside on the sidewalk, he grabs your hand, thumb running over your knuckles as he smiles at you. A genuine smile, the first one you've seen since you've known him.

"Goodnight. And thank you," he says. 

"No need for thanks," you demure, squeezing his hand. "I had fun. And the sandwich was delicious. You spoil me, you know."

He kisses your forehead, then dips down to meet your lips once more. Sweet, chaste, but lingering, as if he wants to commit the feel of it to memory.

"If you’re serious about learning to bake, we can start when you're ready." Tomorrow? Is tomorrow good for you?

"I'll let you know." How about tonight? Right now? You begin to think of ways to rearrange your schedule so you can fit in baking lessons. The thought of rising before the sun makes you scowl, but you might be able to make it work. Especially since you'll be working alongside him. "Goodnight, Kento."

"Goodnight," he repeats, and when he says your name, you can almost hear the way he relishes the feel of it on his tongue.

"Don't forget to practice!" you call to him as you flit down the sidewalk. He chuckles to himself and looks up at the street lamp, hand shoved into his pockets.

"I won't."

The title is taken from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. “If music be the food of love play on,” by itself, is interpreted as equating music to food for love. On its own, as it is commonly quoted, speakers interpret it as promoting love in one’s life as one might seek out more food to sate one’s appetite. But, in the context of the play and the entire quote, it becomes clear that the speaker is asking for more music because he hopes that it will cure him of his obsessive love for Countess Olivia. He hopes that with more music, his “appetite may sicken and so die.” In the case of Nanami and his love interest, I just wanted a clever title to tie bread and music together, so the quote is interpreted here without context, which changes the meaning entirely 😂

The record that reader bring to Nanami is Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and the song specifically that plays is Spring

The Beethoven piece that he plays is Für Elise, which is a common "beginner" classical song for pianists.

The duet they play is Franz Schubert's Sonata in C Major D.812 (for four hands). They don't get very far before Nanami gives up.

In the bakery when they go to share a meal, Nanami puts on a Louis Armstrong record.

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please consider a reblog to help spread the love.

[mygnolia]

CALCU-CRUSH! ♡ 04. holding hands in rugby stands

୨୧ SMAU! SYNOPSIS -›  Yeah, Park Sunghoon might be just a little annoying- but hey! at least he can help you get an A in AP CALC, and he will never a crush on you to make things super weird and complicated, right? [1.3k WORDS]

If there’s two things your tutor is good at, it’s bring punctual, and teaching you trigonometry.

Sunghoon texts you after your last class, keeping his word. He meets you in the library, and thankfully, despite how busy it gets, Sunghoon finds a small and secluded table for the two of you. You find him scrolling on his phone, with his notebook out, before you clear your throat and pull the chair in front of him. When he puts his phone away and gathers a few materials from his bag, you take it as a sign to mirror his actions, pulling the dreaded red paper from your backpack with a look of shame.

“If you would’ve told be this paper came from ___ ___, I wouldn’t believe you.” He chuckles, scanning over the pages. So much red. “What were you even doing during class? Our APUSH report??” He gawks, and it sets off a defensive flare as well as your embarrassment.

“We all make mistakes.” You try to reason in defense.

“I’m just messing with you, ____.” Sunghoon sighs, adjusting his chair to lean over and assessing the questions with you.

Sunghoon’s hair falls into his eyes when he works, and he has the habit of shaking it out or combing it back every few minutes as he begins to review the chapter you two were on, and you smile as you watch him try to tuck it behind his ears. He points out your mistakes carefully, and as much as you are paying attention to the hour he spends trying to show you how to do the first page, you catch the light scent of his fresh and floral fragrance the more you nod and scoot your chair closer. And when Sunghoon turns to you, you notice his lips, rosy and full as he licks them out of nervousness.

“Here,” he taps with his pencil, and your eyes follow to the paper where he’s written a problem out, which looks primarily composed of letters rather than numbers. But if anything, Sunghoon’s explanations are well thought out and full of reasoning and detail. You were only distracted by the proximity once. When you present him the answer, going over the steps, Sunghoon thoughtfully points out a section you made a minor mistake with, and smiles.

“I’m glad you’re catching on. Means I won’t have to do this for long.” He begins to close his books while you pout.

“I think after today, we’re great friends.” You say half sarcastically. “How’s your little project with Wonyoung going?” He shrugs, grabbing his bag to put on the table.

“I switched. Didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable or anything, and the teacher said I could.”

“You really aren’t going to try and woo her? Like- at all?” He shakes his head, a grin pulling at his lips.

“Haven’t you heard of bro-code?”

Humming in agreement, you still press on. “Why did you even like her if you knew Jake did?”

“I was never expecting anything from it. I just wanted to get close because she’s also pretty smart- but also because Jake kept denying that anything was going on between them too, so I half wanted to be friends, and half wanted to see how much Jake really liked her since he’s dumb and doesn’t realize his feelings.” You snicker at his slight dig, but you get where Sunghoon is coming from. It’s good to know at least that he didn’t want anything serious, and knew when to back off.

“So you felt more adoration for her?” And he nods. “Do you think they’ll get together anytime soon?”

Sunghoon scoffs, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “The most they’d do is hold hands in those rugby stands after his games. He seems like he likes being around her, and whether that means they’re friends or more is up to them. Plus they both need each other. Jake is way too afraid to get a B in AP Language and Wonyoung is great at Literature.”

“You know those two are different right?” And he scowls at you, furrowing his eyebrows as he tightens the way he crosses his arms.

“Of course I know they’re different!” And you smile at his whining, putting your hands up in surrender.

“Okay, whatever. Can we can ice cream now like you said?”

“Only if you tell me everything.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “What else to I have to tell you?”

“The whole plan. The whole situation. If not, I won’t help you out on today’s worksheet.”

“I don’t need help on it,” You huff, standing up to grab your bag. It’s Sunghoon’s turn to question your confidence, considering how you two were texting during that period.

“Fine. But don’t come to me on Saturday with questions.”

You two both leave the library, taking the short walk to the convenience store to finally get some well deserved treats. When you both pick out your flavors, Sunghoon leads you both to a bench nearby as you sit with your backpacks and talk.

“So you’re okay with Jake talking to Wonyoung?”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “I’ve said this a million times.”

You move on. “The plan was to get you to try and have feelings for someone else, and then convinve Wonyoung she liked Jake.”

“So she knew I kind of liked her?”

You make a sound in half agreement and half denial, trying to figure out how to explain this part without sounding like a horrible person. “Well, we asked if she would ever be interested in you. Like, when you notice a girl and think, wow, my friend would like her.”

He scoffs, taking a bite of his ice cream. “We do not do that!”

You frown. “That’s beside the point. Let’s just say you did, okay?” And Sunghoon offers you an unconvincing nod. “Well, that’s how we got Wonyoung to confess she liked Jake. But at the time, we didn’t exactly know that Jake liked her too. We thought you liked her and your friends were just cheering you on. So we were super worried that because Wonyoung didn’t return your feelings, me and Karina would be the assholes for not telling you, and I’d be an even bigger asshole for trying to help you get closer. So operation ‘Look Lost in the Math Classrooms’ was made.”

Sunghoon laughs, shaking his head as he looks at you incredulously. “Who was I supposed to catch feelings for instead? Karina?”

You bit your lip, opting to bite a large chunk of the ice cream to buy time to think. “Not quite. That part I can’t exactly tell you.”

He whines, leaning back against the bench and throwing his stick into the trash can. “What?? Was it you, then?”

Yeah- there was no denying it at this point. You nod. “But it wasn’t like I wanted to! That��s emotional manipulation!”

“I’m glad you are a decent human being then.” He jokes, still not sure how to process everything. He feels a bit confused as to how adamantly you refused the idea of catching feelings for him, but drops it, not close enough to you to really think it over too much. But his leave is abrupt, and you don’t want him to think of you as a bad person at all.

“That’s why I told you, Sunghoon. Because I didn’t want you to have to stop liking Wonyoung without knowing the reason why.”

Sunghoon’s not really good at feelings, but he knows your explanation is honest, and he can appreciate it. And he tries to think about it again, seeing the holes in your plan and how it wouldn’t have worked.

“So operation ‘Look Lost in the Math Classrooms’ isn’t a thing, right?” And with the shakes of your head, Sunghoon trusts you this time. “Yeah, your plan was dumb anyways.”

You throw the wooden stick from your ice cream in his direction, and he shouts before avoiding your germs. “That’s gross!” He whines, and you can’t stop laughing at Park Sunghoon.

prev ♡ ml ♡ next

୨୧ REN SAYS... yippee written chapter yayy

୨୧ TAGLIST OPEN! send an ask or dm to be added! @hanrinz @enhaslay @arep4con-qu3sp @realrintaro @jayhoonvroom @simpjay @i03jae @kpopshakespeare @footnote1206 @jakeyverse @tlnyjoong @charlizefaye @hearts4itoshi i @dorayakissu @enhypenlovre @cupidhoons @jayujus @coffeeprincejaehyun @ashtxrie @mumeimei @jakesaverse @heart4hees @haechology @sngleehee @jungwonnieee @seunghancore  @mokangelic @nctislifue @river-demon-slayer @t1iqaa @hoonatic @illvding @enhaz1 @moons-v

୨୧ PERM. SMAU TAGLIST! send ask to be added! @dimplewonie @minleeeknow @heeheesang @mintpjzroll

[smuttaburger]

Chokehold- Wooyoung Smut

Listen to the song that inspired this whole fic

Warnings: Dominant!Bratty Woo x Sub!Bratty! Reader, Oh so much biting, Orgasm denial (you gotta kinda squint), Oral (M receiving), Mention of sex tape, Petnames: Kitten (it’s kinda a lot 🙊) Baby girl (lemme know if I missed any). I think that’s it, if I missed anything, DM me or send me and I’ll add it

NSFW under the cut. MDNI

“I can’t wait to be back home Kitten,” your boyfriend gave you his signature smile that he knew you loved.

“Me too. You know you’re not leaving the apartment for at least a couple days right?” You asked, a twinkle of mischief in your eyes. Mischief that your boyfriend matched and exceeded.

“Oh I’m already planning on that Kitten. You’ve been so good, I’ve got to reward you,” he purred, and it made your body jolt with excitement and anticipation.

“Are you alone Youngie?” You asked, your voice leaking lust.

“Ye-,”

“Wooyoung, you sure you don’t want to come out with us?” San asked.

“Oh hi Y/N!” San called when he noticed you were on the other end. You had to cover up your top that you were allowing to fall off your shoulder while you were talking to Wooyoung.

“Hey Sannie! Can’t wait for your guys’ tour to be over!” You smiled, the lust starting to fade from your body.

“No, you guys are going to bed. I’m not dealing with eight whiny babies,” The guys’ manager interrupted, recognizing San’s going out outfit.

“For once, take Wooyoung’s lead. He’s just FaceTiming his girlfriend like a good boy,”

“Yeah Woo, keep being a good boy,” you teased with a wink, one that he raised a brow at.

“But I thought you didn’t like when I was a good boy,” he threw right back at you.

“Goodnight!” The guys’ manager grabbed San by the ear and pulled him out of the room.

“Sorry Kitten. Wait, did you move your shirt back?” He asked, noticing that your shirt was firmly back in place.

“Wait a second. My sister is blowing up my phone. I’ll be right back Youngie,” you told him, making sure to get an okay and an I love you before hanging up and calling your sister.

Only to realize it was a Code Red situation.

She was at a frat party and her friends bailed. So being the good big sister that you were, you texted your apology and explanation of the situation to Wooyoung.

Granted, he was bummed that his time with you got cut short, but he understood.

As both an older and younger brother, he understood that and loved that you were coming to your sister’s rescue. He’d do no less for his siblings.

It was one of his favorite things. Especially when you were tied up with work. That was usually his time to shine. Whether it was coming directly to the rescue or ordering an Uber to pick her up, Wooyoung was always down to help your family.

You really had gotten the dates wrong. Wooyoung had sent you a screenshot of his flight details, not taking the time change from America to Korea into account.

One more night… He’s coming home tomorrow…

So while you watched the endless fancams of Wooyoung and the spicy videos that you both recorded for these times, you really didn’t expect your locked door to unlock, not that you would’ve heard it.

“Youngie,” you moaned, trailing your hands down your body, closing your eyes and imagining your boyfriend's skillful hands instead of your own pleasing you, playfully pinching and slapping at your heated skin.

“Y/N?” Wooyoung called, before he heard moans coming from your bedroom. His stomach dropped until he heard his own voice. Then a smirk came over his lips.

“F-Fuck!” He heard you gasp, and that was when he dropped his suitcase and carry on, making his way to the bedroom. He silently opened the door to see you splayed out on the bed, your hands working your naked breast and barely clothed pussy.

“Youngie,” you gasped and he picked now to make his presence known.

“Right here kitten,” he smiled and your eyes shot open. Both in shock and elation.

“Youngie!” You squealed, sitting up.

“Don’t stop on my account kitten. Keep pleasuring yourself and maybe if you’re good for me, I’ll join in,” he teased and you smirked, knowing how this cat and mouse game would end: with Wooyoung pounding into you until he got tired. And you crying his name into the air. Your foot lifted before fitting against your opposite ankle, before your hands got back to work, reinvigorated by your boyfriend’s presence.

Your head folded back as you clicked play on the video again, your own moans mixed with the sound of skin slapping skin flitted from your phone to your ears.

“Youngie, I need you,” your hips ground into the mattress as your back arched.

“Be a good girl for me, and I’ll give you what you want,” he reminded you and you nodded, bringing yourself back to the edge of the cliff.

With his words and how you got yourself warmed up earlier, your orgasm hit you, making you bite your lip and head pressing into the pillows you propped up behind yourself.

“Baby?” You called weakly, your eyes opening into slits to look over at Wooyoung who started stripping. When he noticed your eyes on him, he smirked before teasing you with the ghost of his touch.

His eyes darkened before getting down to his underwear that did nothing to help the erection pressing tightly against the fabric.

“Where do you want me Kitten?” He practically purred.

“I don’t care. I just need you.” You whined.

“Damn Kitten, I haven’t even touched you and you’re already whining,” he teased before kneeling in front of the bed and grabbing your ankles, pulling you to the edge, your legs dangling free. Your hips and torso were the only pieces lying on the bed.

“My favorite dessert,” Woo purred.

“And my little kitten warmed it up for me,” he smirked before pressing teasing love bites into your plush thighs.

“Stop fucking teasing Youngie,”you grasped his silky raven locks between your fingers.

Which earned you a straight up bite to your innermost thigh, his nose brushing against the skin where your hip meets your core.

“What was that for?” You demanded.

“For hurrying a masterpiece,” he laughed, making you roll your eyes.

“Fucking brat,” you grumbled as his lips ghosted over your core and he stopped, an eyebrow raising at your words.

“Oh I’m a fucking brat?” He asked, gently blowing cool air onto your core, making your body involuntarily arch upward.

“Yeap,” you stood by your earlier statement. But what screwed you over in the best way possible, is that you were as big of a brat as him.

“Well brats don’t get what they want. Now do they?” Wooyoung asked, turning more dominant in the moment.

Yes that motherfucker was the biggest brat and switch you knew of.

“I usually get what I want,” you wink, making Wooyoung’s face flush for a moment.

He had no rebuttals, and you knew it.

“How about I give you something for your mouth to do besides talking shit,” he lifted you to your feet and standing in record time.

With how much he had to do even more intensive moves on stage made this a cakewalk.

There was a reason you used your vacation for this week. While you might have gotten the date wrong, you knew better than to expect to work for that first week- if you wanted to be coherent and not busy daydreaming or texting Woo any chance you got.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he grasped your chin in one of his palms and bringing you closer to his member.

You smirked before pressing a light kiss to the tip, the faintest taste of saltiness mixed with sweetness.

“You little minx,” you teased before continuing. “You’ve been drinking pineapple juice,” you smiled deviously.

“Perfect,” you then brought him into your mouth, needing to reacquaint yourself with his size.

“Just for you Kitten. You can take it all,” Woo bucked his hips into you, making you take a little more of him as a result.

The extra length made you have to come up for air, coughing slightly. As soon as you got your breathing back under control, you went back in, pressing your palm’s delicately on the front of his thighs. You looked up to see him already watching you take him in your mouth, lust completely overtaken your boyfriend, and lust filled gazes passed between you two.

Once you took his entire length in your mouth, Woo tipped his head back in pleasure, a moan ripping its way out from his chest. He’d missed this the most during the tour.

“Want me to record?” You asked, your mind going to the same place as your boyfriend’s. He nodded and jerked himself off while you hurried to your feet, grabbing your phone from the bed and pressing record, bringing the camera to face Woo full on.

It only encouraged him while you scoped out the best spot for your phone so you could just set it and forget it. You smirked as you set your phone against your spicy novels in the small bookshelf in the room.

“And I’m the minx?” Woo asked with another raised eyebrow, noticing where you set up your phone. He had to do a double take, his smirk deepened when he read the titles. It was a set that Woo had delivered the day you had to drop him off at the airport.

“Yeah tell me what you want babe, Let me bet something on your book page. What a wicked mind with some wicked ways,” He spoke the words to an edit on TikTok of him that one of your best friends accidentally sent it to him instead of you.

Your face flushed, bringing him out from between your lips.

“Izzy sent that to you?” You asked, mock horror in your tone.

“She meant to send it to you,” he spoke, smirking at the memory of watching himself from different concerts this tour, mostly in America, over a banger song that explained your sex life to a T.

“Maybe I should do what I wanted to do for you when she sent it to me,” you purred, standing and placing your hands on his shoulders, before pushing him onto the bed, straddling his lap.

“Look at you,” he purred, running his hands over your hips while one moved to your breast. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his index and forefinger, before bringing it between his lips, nipping at the sensitive heated flesh. A moan left your lips, your head dipping back, the ends of your hair tickling your shoulders and upper back.

“Right there,” you rolled your hips into your boyfriend’s, his member brushing lightly against your core.

“You want it baby girl, don’t you,” he brought his lips to your ear, nipping at your earlobe, before ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear.

“Y-Yes please,” you moaned, craving the friction you’d missed.

“Just be patient baby girl. I’ve been waiting for this for months, I’m going to get my fill,” he bit on your shoulder, a whine leaving your lips.

“I need you,” you whimper, your core pulsing around nothing in desperation.

“Where do you need me?” He asked.

“Inside me, now!” You demanded, grasping his hips with your hands.

“What did I say about rushing a masterpiece?” Woo asked.

“I don’t care,” you shook your head.

“So impatient tonight kitten,” he chuckled before you had enough of the teasing, lining yourself up with his member, and sinking down so he could fill you up to the brim.

“Oh my god!” Both of you hissed when bottomed out into you.

“You feel so good baby girl,” he whined, bucking up to meet your tempo.

“Youngie, I’m g-gonna cum,” you whimpered, trying to speed up the tempo.

“Nah nah baby girl. I’ve got you close, why change it up?” He asked, rolling his hips, making your eyes roll back into your head, biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming as you were tossed off the edge of the cliff of pleasure.

“I’m close kitten,” Wooyoung’s thrusts became much messier the closer he got to his own release. He brought his lips to your ear, his grunts in surround sound in your ear.

“I-I’m cumming,” he warned you before painting your walls white with his seed. You melted against your boyfriend’s body as the orgasm delirium washed through your body.

“I love you so much baby girl,” Wooyoung separated from you, going to go get the baby wipes from the bathroom while you laid on the bed, your limbs still tingly from the first of many orgasms to come while he was home.

“Fucking TikTok,” you chuckled when Woo came back into the room.

“What’s so funny Kitten?”

“This all started because of that TikTok,” you laughed softly and he shut his mouth with a upward tilt to his plump lips.

“What? That’s what got you all needy?” he laughed and walked to the bed to clean you both up.

“Yeah pretty much,” you pressed a sweet kiss to his lips.

Taglist: @the-princess-of-mischief-1998 @multidreams-and-desires @faeratil

[calilk]

"You may not rest now there are monsters nearby'. The message flashes in the corner of Pearl’s consciousness - far too bright, too much for pricking red rimmed eyes. The air around her is still. Silent. Empty. Tilly dozes, curled and oh so small. The earth and its shambling forms is far, far below. Pearl is alone. One explanation remains. Her throat is dry and she cannot stay her rabbiting heart.

The fear is ever present, thrumming through her code, tripping strings, sending false positives domino-ing through every skien of her being. The lines ensnare her, mind tangled in a trawlnet of commands. Pinning back her eyelids and jerking her arm away as her fingertips barely brush cotton as though scalded. Her eyelid twitches. Sleep is elusive.

As the nights pass her bags grow deeper, cheeks hollowing and sockets sinking ever more. The puddles at her feet are something to be feared, revealing fragments of a creature that follows her every move.

Phantoms gather around her. Drifting dust motes. Aimless and docile. Drawn but unable to attack one their own.

The air is thick. Thoughts flow like molasses, catching on the corners of her consciousness. The dust covered bed in the corner of the room draw her eyes like a magnet, inevitable, all consuming, the taunt of another, happier life, her feeble focus sharpened to a fine point, to her hopes her dreams everything she could never be encapsulated in untouched sheets and the fine freshly spun cotton. Her left eyelid will not stop twitching.

It's strange, she thinks in a sluggish sort of way, trying to pin down her gently roiling brain onto one topic, like attempting to catch a leaf skipping along the ground. The eddies of the wind catch it in its fingers and swing it into a flowing foxtrot, ghosting around her mind, diverging and converging and flowing and tumbling and landing and.

Those around her seem completely unaffected by her monstrous self.

The detail lodges in the back of her mind in an unconscious sort of way at first. Registered by a mindless datalogger. Uncomprehending. As she ghosts past Martyn, bathed in moonlight, fumbling brain feebly to string together some sort of comprehensible sentence. Fingers twitching. So close to contact. A millennia away.

She doesn’t quite remember what she said, mouth running unprompted, but it must’ve been wrong. All she is is wrong. He turns. Any camaraderie in shreds, the could’ve beens sliding across her inner sight, light polluted fragments of peace and belonging dissected and diagnosed for any possible mistake, incisions stitched and unstitched and sewn and shredded: jealousy and desperation and the ever present syrupy melancholy are a poor bonding agent. Who would entertain something less than human. Why let the monster in. He entombs himself in sheets to avoid her. Cocooned and held in a way she could never be. He sleeps.

Moonlight guides her to her fortification. Back. Home? Rough hewn fur that leans into her hand. Belonging despite the chasm between them. Warmth. Skin deep, but warmth all the same. The warmth leaves. Curls up. Sleeps. How could a monster ever perform such a painfully human act? Even without the- wait. he sleeps he sleeps he slee

He sleeps?

[cenorii]

Drunken theory about EYES

Let's get away from game conventions and the fact that Capcom could have trivially forgotten or left something out. I wrote this theory under temperature, so there is a certain level of absurdity present, especially since I dreamed it and that was the reason for writing it. I warned you!

Until there is an official explanation, this article is up to date.

What is this theory about? It's about both Wesker's eyes and PG67A/W. It's about why his eyes change color and what it depends on.

So, let's talk about PG67A/W first. It is not officially known when exactly this serum was created, but I believe it is definitely after 2003. That's when Wesker merged with Tricell, because the syringe has their brand label on it. He needs PG67A/W to «stabilize the force». But what is this «stabilization» really? We don't really know what happens to Wesker without the serum. The game says that he loses strength without it and so he needs the serum to stabilize his body, but I have a different opinion, which I'll tell you in a moment.

Between 1998 and 2003, Wesker is unable to use PG67A/W because it has not yet been invented. However, the powers he gained from the virus have not left him during these 5 years, he is far beyond a normal human. While fighting Sergei and his Ivans in 2003 (Umbrella Chronicles) he displayed his standard set of abilities. The only thing he lacked was speed, the same speed in re5.

We conclude that he only needs PG67A/W to have speed. It was speed and reaction that he «lost» when Chris and Sheva injected him with an overdose of PG67A/W in re5. However, the strength remained the same, thanks to it, he punched the rocket with Uroboros with his arm.

In fact, if you give him an extra dose of PG67A/W, he doesn't lose any of his abilities, including his speed. Wesker's body is only overloaded, which causes a severe headache as his body tries to cope with the strain. His powers then increase even more, causing them to become difficult to control. When Chris injected him with an extra dose again, his strength became not just difficult, but impossible to control, and he gave up speed altogether, because it was trivially useless.

--------------------------------------------

Now that we've dealt with how the serum works, let's talk about the abnormality of his eyes. Wesker's eye color is closely related to his ability status. I'll go into detail in a moment.

To make it easier to understand what I'm talking about, we need to trace the entire history of the change. In the fandom, it is commonly believed that his eyes were originally blue, and after the virus injection, they became permanently red-orange. But what if I told you that they change color all the time?

Re1 it's simple - blue. This is the very beginning of the story, so this color is taken as the standard color.

Then the Umbrella Chronicles plot happens, where his eyes changed color for the first time (in the timeline of the story).

The red glow is something similar to re5, however it momentarily goes out, returning his eyes to a blue color, but why? It's really unclear why they're still blue here if the game was released in 2007, long after Code Veronica (2000), in which his eyes were redesigned long ago.

Is the old color persisting not because of Capcoms inattention, but because of canonical processes in his body? The eyes can't instantly change their appearance and need time to fully mutate? We'll come back to that.

Ibid, in Umbrella Chronicles, his eyes are no longer blue in the official material.

Wesker then appears in Code Veronica and there his eyes have the familiar orange look for the first time (according to the games release chronology), like on official Umbrella Chronicles materials.

Given that the events here take place in 1998, like re1, one can really assume that Wesker needed some time to mutate fully.

In 2002, Wesker appears in Operation Javier (Darkside Chronicles, 2009), his eyes blue again.

In 2003, one of the storylines of Umbrella Chronicles and Prelude to the Fall, his eyes came back to design from Code Veronica.

In 2005, when re4 released his eyes are blue again. I could say that this was allowed by accident, when Wesker's model, from the re1 remake, Capcom simply forgot to change the eye color. But that theory is ruined by one small fact... the remake.

In the re4 remake, his eyes aren't orange either (actually they are orange, but human).

They're not blue, of course, but different from Code Veronica, suggesting that his eyes probably do lose their inhuman appearance over time, slowly turning into normal eyes. In Code Veronica, they're orange because Wesker is at the peak of his powers, but over time he weakens, his eyes change, and he needs PG67A/W to get things back to the way they were, only with bonuses like reaction and speed.

And by the way, in the concepts for re5 there's a shot where Wesker's eyes regain their blue color. If even at the stage of game development Capcom thought about this feature, when the developers already had several games where his eye color varied, then it can be considered a canonical feature. We take into account not only this concept, which was not included in the game, but also the eye from the remake of re4, which does not look like Code Veronica or re5 at all.

In standard form, after taking PG67A/W and\or at the peak of his powers, Wesker's eyes look like this. Essentially identical to Code Veronica, it just looks better due to the graphics.

My conclusion: the color of his eyes directly shows the state of strength. Weakened body - first the pupil changes, becoming round again, and then the color already changes, gradually «dimming» in approaching the original (blue) color. After taking the serum - red or orange color with a narrow pupil. The blue color could mean complete weakness, but judging by re4r, he doesn't drive himself to that extreme state, so it's unlikely Capcom will ever show such a thing again. The only time his mutated eyes have been blue canonically is Umbrella Chronicles, but there it's due (presumably) to the mutation not being completed yet, and also in Darkside Chronicles.

Yes, I actually had a dream that I was writing this theory, but I had to do some brainstorming to turn it into something readable, as well as gather material. Don't take it too seriously.

[dangraccoon]

Untitled Spreadsheet - PRIVATE

Chapter 11 - Morning

Word Count: 752

Content: hangover, sobering up in more ways than one

For @literallyjustanerd, based on this post

The pounding in his head was the first thing Cody became aware of when he awoke. As his aching brain began registering other stimuli, he realized he was holding his datapad below the blanket. Did he have a blanket in his office? No, he didn’t think he did, no matter how often he accidentally fell asleep there. Besides, the fabric was much too soft to be GAR-issue. 

He hit the button, powering up the display screen. His eyes balked at the sudden bright light and pain seared through his head.

The spreadsheet was still up. He looked over his haphazard entry from the previous night.

“I thnk. I lov e him”

Cody blinked at the words. He knows he wrote them. He remembers writing them in a hazy kind of way. More importantly, he knows they’re true. Despite the dense fog that surrounded his brain, things felt more clear than they had for the past two years. 

He’d spent so much time trying to figure out whether or not Kenobi loved him that he’d never stopped to really define his own feelings.

And it was love. He was absolutely, completely, head over heels in love with his General. His stomach roiled with nausea from his hangover, but his heart leapt with excitement.

The very few previous times he’d gotten so drunk, his memory of the night before had been spotty but not this time. No, this time he felt like he remembered every detail. 

The way Kenobi talked to him– no, not just talked, Kenobi was flirting with him and he had been flirting back.

They smiled and joked and laughed together. They danced together. Cody had never felt so much like a real person as he had last night.

He sat up, letting the blanket slide off, his world spinning and vision going spotty for a brief moment as bile clawed up his throat.

Then, in the darkness, he saw them.

A still steaming mug of very strong caf by the smell of it and a paper med cup. He picked it up, two blue and red tablets rattled inside.

Painkillers and caf. His General had checked in on him. His heart started to warm but paused, then picked up his datapad again as doubt echoed in the back of his mind.

This was getting out of hand. Despite what he now had fully realized and defined, he couldn’t have feelings for the General. If the General ever found out, it would put him in an impossible situation.

And if he did return Cody’s feelings–which he doubted; General Kenobi was a kind person and Cody was doing him a disservice to believe he could be interested in a nobody like him–and anyone found out? At minimum, Cody would be stripped of rank and decommissioned, though he expected a firing squad. He didn’t know what would happen to Kenobi but he was sure it wouldn’t be good.

He’d record this last entry, and then he’d have to cut himself off. He couldn’t ever tell the General why, but their odd friendship had to ease across the line back into professional territory. He’d been playing with fire too long, and the thought of Kenobi being the one to get burned was too much to bear.

Rex: you alive today brother

Cody: Functional enough and definitely hungover. Given my recent thoughts, I might still be drunk. How are you and your twins?

Rex: the boys went a bit crazy with some of the shinies but we didnt have to bribe fox this time

Rex: ahsoka and anakin found us and brought us home

Rex: that spotchka was strong

Rex: almost surprised it didnt kill us

Cody: I’m thinking something similar.

Rex: not really what i was asking about though

Rex: saw your spreadsheet

Rex: i think your explanations are in the wrong spots

Cody: I think we both know it doesn’t matter much anymore. That it can’t matter.

Rex: i know what youre thinking codes

Rex: but dont

Rex: cant you see that he loves you

Cody: Drop it, Rex; it’s done. There’s nothing we can do about it anymore.

Rex: he spent the last 2 years trying to show you that

Rex: dont shove it all aside

Cody: Rex’ika, you’ve been very tolerant of me and I can’t thank you enough for that, but please let it go. 

Rex: youre making a mistake kote

   ⨂ Rex: please orivod just talk to me

[This comm channel has been muted for 24 standard hours]

Event: Left painkillers and a hot cup of caf for me when I woke up hungover

Rational explanation: He might have done this for everyone. He probably did this for everyone.

Irrational explanation: Last night meant the same thing to him that it did to me

Additional notes: I woke up covered with a blanket. I don’t think I went to sleep with a blanket

↫ Previous Chapter

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Thanks for reading! - River

Untitled Spreadsheet - PRIVATE Master List DangRaccoon Master List Tag List Form Read on AO3

Tags: @nekotaetae @get-wr3ckered @jediknightjana @lucyysthings @unstable-kiwi @6oceansofmoons @l3xi3luv @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @winter-phoenix1995 @lokigirlszendaya @nomercyforthewarrior @Padawancat97 @idoubleswearimawriter @wishyouthetest @orangez3st @Amiacatholicoracat-holic @flowered-bicycles @error6gendernotfound @techs-goggles9902

[aedearly]

hey balu, do you know how to recolor skin / how a coloring psd works for that? like for a character that's pale and not the shade they should be ( cough cough natlan ) asking bc I want to that but idk how

Hiya, anon! I can explain how I personally do it, but here's a huuuuuuge disclaimer: I'm colourblind, so I heavily rely on colour wheel pointers. Throughout this tutorial, you'll see me constantly comparing where the pointer is and trying to use my somewhat limited knowledge of colour theory. I'm sure other creators have other ways to do this that are much simpler and/or more effective; you should look for and check out other tutorials here on Tumblr, YouTube, or Twitter!

Due to the limited previews of images on Tumblr, you can also open the images on new tabs to see more details.

For religious and political reasons, I will not use a Natlan character as an example. Instead, I'll use Candace (also from Genshin Impact) as our muse. Specifically, I will use her character card art image, which can be found on the Genshin Impact fandom wiki. The image quality is not so great, so that's why we'll see some bleeding pixels here and there. Dealing with those is another tutorial altogether. Also, if you meant an absolutely pale character (with littler to no melanin), that would be another tutorial, too. So, I'll be sticking with these examples and explanations here! This can give you a starting point.

In this tutorial, we will go from this before (left) to this after (right):

Also, I'd like to point out that these steps are for this specific picture/character. Though the same logic can be applied to other characters and images, it's imperative to remember, especially when you're starting your editing adventures, that there is no fool-proof and 100% universal PSD. I'm just explaining the logic behind how a colouring PSD works and some of my mental processes behind it.

Please consider reblogging, liking this post, and/or supporting me on ko-fi if this helped you! That way, I can keep bringing you tutorials like this faster and more effectively. ~

Now, let's begin!

First, we must notice that skin colours (even paler ones) are shade variations of yellows and reds. If we check the hex code colour/colour pointer on the colour wheel, we will see that Candace's skin colour is at the intersection between red and yellow, and is on the lighter/less saturated part.

Here, I am deepening/saturating the blues of her clothes by creating a Hue/Saturation layer, changing from Master > Blues and adjusting the Hue and Saturation values. Colour theory basics: opposing colours on the colour wheels will give a more significant idea of contrast; the bluer colours will appear colder, and the warmer colours will appear hotter and, therefore, more saturated.

In this second step, I am creating a Selective Colour layer, focusing on the Reds. I want this to be highly reddish for now, so I'm lowering the Cyans to the minimum values I can. Notice how the colour wheel pointers went down, meaning we are in a redder, more saturated and more precise zone. The darker the skin, the redder its colours will be in pictures.

Thirdly, I am now creating a Colour Balance layer. Since I want to adjust the warmer colours (e.g., Reds), I am adding more reds, magentas, and yellows.

The exact process I did for Candace's clothes, I'll do for her accessories. Her accessories blended too much with her skin tone (hex code-wise and I imagine that for the normal eye, too). So, to make the yellows on her accessories pop and be more different from her skin, I created yet another Hue/Saturation layer and changed from Master > Yellows, altering the Hues, Saturation and Lightness values.

Now that we have the image's primary colours (blues, reds, yellows) separated, it is time to deepen/saturate the reds. So here, I made another Selective Colour layer, also focusing on the Reds. Notice that now I'm also increasing the Cyan values. Why? Because Cyans make the reds look darker, and I want exactly that. So everything will increase in value.

To further deepen these colours, I created a Curves Layer and tweaked each RGB curve. I made the blues lighter; meanwhile, the greens and reds went darker. Again, colour theory! Notice on the colour wheel that her skin is extremely red and saturated. This is precisely what I want. Why? Well...

... Because now, by using a Selective Colour layer again, I can make her skin magentaish. Pure magentas are rare in pictures, even fantasy/2D characters. Generally, you will find variations of purples, pinks or reds, but magentas are more difficult to find. Therefore, they're easier to work with/edit. Even if the character had magenta colours, we could've isolated them beforehand, too. This step guarantees that my PSD will solely focus on her skin tone, basically.

Our final step is to create another Hue/Saturation layer and change the setting from Master > Magentas. We will decrease the Saturation and Lightness values and slide the Hue bar to the right. And now, check the colour wheel: it's a beautiful dark brown! It's popping a lot against the yellows and blues. ~

This is where we started vs where we finished!

So there you have it! A speedy but hopefully informative tutorial on how colouring PSD works and how you can quickly love your characters a bit more when doing edits and graphics for them!

Again, please consider reblogging, liking this post, and/or supporting me on ko-fi if this helped you! That way, I can keep bringing you tutorials like this faster and more effectively. ~

If you have any questions, please let me know!

[katyawriteswhump]

I hear your voice (and it carries me)

for @steddieangstyaugust day 17 prompt: 'Keep breathing, please."

Rating: M WC: 1700 CW Drug-use Tags: Established steddie, alternate canon season 4 (with details fudged and twisted for my own plotty purposes.)

What if Vecna came for Steve first, not Chrissy? (No actual death, I promise, just guilty-pleasure pop and major angst…)

...

Eddie climbed through the window that Dustin had left open and into Steve’s hospital room. His boots smacked too loud on the floor, and his every muscle tightened.

Steve was wired up to a series of bleeping machines. Plaster casts smothered three of his limbs. His neck was in a brace, and his face was half-lost beneath an oxygen mask.

Eddie knew, of course. Steve had arrived here in a far worse state than this. 

Still one helluva punch in the gut.

He tiptoed to the bed and located Steve’s Walkman, which had been dumped on a trolley. He slipped it back over Steve’s ears, careful not to disturb the mask. Dustin and Robin had played a showstopper in convincing Steve’s mom that Steve would want constant pop. 

Unfortunately, the medical staff kept taking the darn thing off.

Eddie didn’t switch the cassette on right away, however. He anxiously smoothed Steve’s hair.

“God, I’m sorry,” he said brokenly. “I panicked, Stevie. I was too fucking scared. I should’ve broken your fall, and I should never have let you… I… I shouldn’t have…” He pressed his lips to Steve’s cool, clammy brow. A fat tear dripped from his nose. “Keep breathing, Baby. Keep breathing, please.”

“CODE RED, I REPEAT THIS IS A CODE RED! EDDIE, DO YOU COPY?” 

Dustin’s yell blasted through Eddie’s walkie-talkie. Eddie scrambled to turn the volume down.

“Henderson, what the heck?”

“Eddie, the night nurse has started her rounds early. I repeat—she’s started her rounds early. You gotta get outta there NOW.”

…

One week earlier

Steve lay flat on his back on Eddie’s bed, shirtless, and with his jeans tangled round his knees. Eddie was sprawled on top of him—a smokin’ hot mess of sweat and hair—and kissing Steve stupid.

Steve should’ve been in a happy place. He was sucking Eddie’s face off, grinding himself up into Eddie, while Eddie pawed hungrily at his ass. Eddie wanted in, and Steve wanted nothing more than for Eddie to bone his brains out.

If only he could shake these stupid jitters.

Christ, the blood pounding in his ears drowned out the mega-loud Aerosmith track on his latest mixtape. He was also dog-tired, and sick of it. The nightmares had ruined his sleep for days.

And they were all total bull.

Yeah, Steve felt guilty about shit. Not only about Barb, though that was a biggie—there was so much he’d screwed up in his life. He sucked. He got it, blah, blah, blah.

No way was he buying into crazy hallucinations where Eddie yelled and hated on him. Let alone ones where Robin transformed into a squelchy tentacle monster. He was going out of his tiny mind. It was the only reasonable explanation, and the only answer right now was…

Eddie broke the kiss. “You okay, Babe? Still got a headache?”

“I’m fine.” Steve dabbed his lips, shivering because Eddie was too far away already. “I’ll be fine. Gimme more of the good stuff, okay?”

Eddie turned down the music. “Seriously? You mainlined poppers earlier—enough to lay low a daddy buffalo. That shit means business.”

“So I do. Stop being a freakin’ pussy.” Steve wedged his hand between Eddie’s thighs and purred. “I can totally handle it, and if I do turn to mush? Means I can take even more of this big boy.”

“I’m not sure, Stevie… Oh shiiiit.” 

Steve mercilessly squeezed Eddie’s dick, batted his lashes. Yeah, he’d beg if he had to. Anything to feel less tense and haunted, to feel he was actually in the room with Eddie. 

He never had to.

Eddie pulled a dopey face, started rummaging through his stuff. Steve dragged his jeans up with fumbling hands. He maxed out the stereo volume—snickering because Eddie was gonna literally piss himself when the track-after-next started—and wandered toward the kitchen to get more beer.

….

Eddie located a shoebox full of snazzy lil’ multicolor poppers and a sachet of Special K. Then his frazzled brain caught up with him.

He’s already had waaay too much. Okay, he’s still revved as fuck, but THAT’S NOT NORMAL.

He ditched the shoebox, grabbed a jar of Acetaminophen. After tipping all but two pills out, he peeled off the label. He’d tell Steve they were hardcore tranqs. Shifty, but… Screw it, he cared about Steve more than he’d ever cared about anyone. Yeah, Steve had bugged him for downers. Eddie should never have caved. He vowed, one way or another, he’d wean his boy off ’em.

He was, admittedly, launching his campaign the coward’s way. Had to start somewhere, right?

“There you go, Honey,” he said, wandering out. “Boneless bliss just moments away.”

Eddie stopped in his tracks. He dropped the jar. Steve stood motionless in the middle of the trailer. His eyes were lidded, twitchy with the occasional flash of white.

“Steve?” Eddie dashed forward, started shaking him. “Talk to me, Steve. Wake up! Can you hear me? I don’t like this, Stevie.”

Shit! He’s ODd already!

Eddie jostled him, pleaded with him. Right till the moment Steve levitated up into the air and smacked into the ceiling.

Eddie staggered back. The Black Sabbath track blasting from the stereo ended. Silence reigned.

One of Steve’s arms twisted the wrong way at the elbow and popped. Eddie screamed, then actually pinched himself, because this had to be a horrible dream, and then…

‘Ooh, baby, do you know what that's worth?

Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth’

Belinda Carlilse. Belinda fucking Carlilse. Yeah, Steve loved to sneak pop-tastic hits onto his mixtapes. Eddie would always crack up, plus he didn’t hate them either.

One of Steve’s legs contorted with a sickening snap.

‘They say in Heaven, love comes first

We'll make Heaven a place on Earth…’

Steve’s eyes flashed from white to brown. He fell, landing with a horribly crunching smack.

In the blur of the next few minutes, Eddie called an ambulance. He leaned close over Steve’s blue-ish lips, sensed the faintest warmth, though didn’t dare touch him. His eyes bled. He looked so… broken. Eddie prayed to some WASP deity he’d never believed in that he was the one having a really bad trip.

He went with Steve in the ambulance and held his limp hand on the ride. They’d already got that mask on his face, the brace around his neck. At the hospital, Eddie watched Steve’s gurney disappear through swinging doors. He collapsed in the waiting room, buried his face in his hands.

Steve’s parents arrived soon after. They joined the doctors in bombarding Eddie with thunderous glares, until the truth finally glimmered.

They believe I did that to him.

Even if… WHEN… Steve wakes up, they’ll say we were both high as fucking kites. They’ll blame the satan-worshipping freakshow.

Convinced the cops were on their way, Eddie fled via a fire escape. While he was holed up at Reefer Ric’s, two teens were murdered. The whole town now believed Eddie was the monster behind those crimes, too.

“Way to go making a play for the FBI’s Most Wanted list,” Dustin said, when he brought Eddie supplies. “If you hadn’t run, those deaths would’ve got you off the hook. Not that you’re exactly innocent. You know your fun-time sweeties repressed Steve’s breathing as badly as the neck injuries? Sent him into that coma?”

“Wow, you’re a real genius! Never dawned on me. Oh, hold on. IT’LL TORTURE ME EVERY GODDAMN MOMENT, OF EVERY FREAKIN’ DAY, FOR THE REST OF MY CURSED LIFE.”

At least the kid had a theory about the attacks, supernatural sorcery shit that blew Eddie’s mind. Also, one of Dustin’s friends, Max, was apparently lined up to be the next victim. For some wild reason, the only thing keeping the killer at bay was endless Kate Bush.

“Eddie,” asked Dustin, while Eddie stared into a box of Cap’n Crunch he’d literally no appetite for. “Is there any music you reckon might help Steve?”

…

‘In this world we're just beginnin'

To understand the miracle of livin'’

Steve was beyond sick of Belinda.

She ebbed and flowed through his consciousness pretty much constantly. Trouble was, whenever she was randomly gone, as she was now, the swirling red fog around him thickened. He was confused, and yeah, he was frightened. He’d not heard any squelching footsteps or booming synth voices lately, but he sensed that thing was still out there.

He occasionally heard talking. People poked and prodded him, and breathing was sometimes a scary battle. He tried to talk himself once or twice, but he couldn’t even open his eyes. He was lost and sick and hurting and… so lost.

Right until he felt somebody stroking his hair. Then a moist feather-soft brush on his brow. 

Eddie.

He’d recognise Eddie’s kiss anywhere, whether rough or dumbass levels of sweet. Eddie was here. Eddie was with him. Steve strove harder than ever to fight free of the choking fog.

“Keep breathing, Baby.”

Eddie’s voice. Broken and distant, but it was him.

“Keep breathing,” Eddie whispered, “please.”

“CODE RED, I REPEAT THIS IS A CODE RED! EDDIE, DO YOU COPY?” 

Steve’s blood literally jumped. Shit, was that Henderson? “Eddie, the night nurse has started her rounds early. I repeat—she’s started her rounds. You gotta get outta there NOW.”

Too much. Steve’s head was too muddled, he didn’t understand. He finally fluttered his eyes open and latched his blurry focus onto Eddie. Who startled like a coyote bit his butt. Steve would’ve laughed, if he’d gotten the lung power.

“Steve? Steve!”

Eddie seemed spooked. Steve’s heart rate skyrocketed. He was in a hospital bed. He’d got some weird plastic mask thing on his face. When he tried to lift his arm, pain lanced hotly. 

Oh God, oh God!

He fixed on Eddie and felt himself calm a little. “Please,” he murmured, his voice a barely-there rasp. “Don’t go.”

Eddie squeezed Steve’s hand and smiled gently. “Not if I can help it, darlin’.”

Steve faintly registered a door flying wide. A voice cried out, echoed by a wailing alarm. He somehow found the strength to grip Eddie’s fingers, even as Belinda Carlisle launched up in his ears again:

‘Baby, I was afraid before

But I'm not afraid anymore…’

Eddie’s hand was torn away from Steve’s loosening grip, and Steve slipped back into the fog.

...

(Steve is okay, Vecna got distracted and El whipped his ass anyway, then Eddie get off, and it all ended happily... promise!) You tube link to 'heaven is a place on earth' for other 80s pop obsessives

Thanks for reading! All my ST fic on AO3

[bornfreediedcaged]

Harrison was the most realistic person in Dexter for shooting his father after he found everything would and some of you people didn’t get his point at the end. Dexter insists upon his code, on his moral superiority over all of these other killers, the fact that he kills them somehow cancels out his guilt in his own mind but Dexter does it for the same reason as all the sadists that he looks down on. As his brother says in season one that every Dexter dudebro and fandom person gets a little wet over, “You like to watch the light leave their eyes” and “You can’t be a killer and a hero, it doesn’t work that way”.

Harrison is just more head on with his explanation than cushioned and honeyed like Brian is, because Harrison doesn't admire him or the way he kills, because he just realised his dad is a sadistic pretentious asshole who left him because he got butt hurt over something he caused and only slightly got out of a suicide attempt. His father decided to start again and never saw him as apart of that start over, he never wondered, never wanted Harrison back because he didn’t want the life he made for himself, because he didn’t see Harrison as a part of his new life. He got Harrison’s mother killed and fully intended to abandon him forever to think his father was dead as well. He should have gone for the head, I wish Harrison unloaded that a machine gun mag and left him a red stain in the snow.

It’s not even just the fact that Dexter does all this insane shit but it’s the fact he’s such a dick about it too. I’m also not forgetting that Dexter doesn’t warn Harrison about Kurt being an actual murderer at all, fully knowing that Kurt is a serial killer and may harm his son, does another trinity with footsies with a well known serial killer and almost gets his son killed while getting freaky with a cop. Harrison just clocked, what Dexter admits himself mind you, at the end of Dexter, his sadistic tendencies and didn’t like what he saw so he did exactly what Dexter does to everyone else. It’s not even ironic but it’s criminal that no one seems to comprehend this, literally all of Dexter’s family members come to the conclusion that Dexter likes killing people, not for a code, not for a reason but because he’s a comfort killer, because he was grown and raised to kill.

That’s why Harrison hates him, because he realises that Dexter is trying to do that shit that obviously didn’t work in his childhood to him on top of all of the crazy shit he’s already done. Why are we hating Harrison but sucking Dexter’s cock for the same shit? Dexter is not without his flaws, the original show is literally showcasing his flaws in excruciating detail with each season focusing on a new one. This is literally the shit Dexter would do if he were in Harrison’s position and also, Dexter embraced Harrison killing him and honestly seems a little bummed out that he survived in the resurrection trailers. Despite all of Dexter’s social flaws and misunderstandings, even he understands that his son is right and does have the right to kill him and even loves him for it, they’ll always agree with their king except for the times that he actually admits that he’s done something fundamentally wrong.

[aquaquadrant]

Popping in to say that I’ve been following ur htp au since like,,, October last year? I’ve left some asks before about how much I love it (I was that anon who was needing out about tango and bravo’s names and the international flag code from several months ago + a few other asks)

The ending was the most beautiful and SATISFYING piece of literature I’ve ever written. Genuinely. Wtf. And I’ve read a lot of books. I’m an English/creative writing major and your work is so beautiful, the story arcs, every loose end was tied up, you’re like the new standard for awesomeness. Seriously.

every loose end was wrapped up so well, all the closure and follow up we wanted, explanations of things like Scáil, hels meanings, their admin, even other hermits at the end there that were mentioned about in asks before but I never thought would be relevant in the main story. Things we didn’t even need to know like bX I was not expecting at all, I was content with just what we knew about him but you made it even better.

also the callbacks to earlier chapters, earlier moments and little jokes, bravo and Timmy’s not a builder moment was awesome, the way you portrayed bravo and tangos mindsets was phenomenal and with such intricacies. Stunning. And you didn’t force a reconciliation between bravo and timmy either, so natural.

Everything had a reason, an explanation, even the intricacies of herobrine? wasnt expecting that at all. Or Alex???! You didn’t need to include that detail BUT YOU DID AND I LOVE IT

the way you explained the greater player universe learning about hels, also the pausing on the red stone tutorial!! Loved that part. The pov switches and pacing of the last chapter p 1 and 2 were perfect. Well executed to keep the reader able to understand but still enough suspense. Not to mention once again your way of capturing each persons way of talking. Bravo having similar vocab to tango especially really drives home their similarities.

The way atlas breaks. It’s so hard to make an ending with someone like him SATISFYING because man I’ve read so many stories where it’s just not it. But you did it so fucking well. And subjected to retail salesman lifestyle on top of that? Wonderful. His damn glasses finally broken. Good. Or The watchers and listeners in the background too! Loved that. You explained things that were talked about in asks so well that even those who don’t read the asks could understand.

Most of all emotional and moral nuance. So perfectly explained. As someone who used to have a hard time with moral ocd I relate a lot to the obsession with good vs evil that I’ve had to come to terms with in my own journey and I can really see that mirrored in this fic, just like the characters learn.

And in addition to it all, I loved the ending with the Minecraft credits end message. You not only made it interesting and beautiful story and awareness of the player’s existence without being too confusing, but perfectly replicated the voices of the end credits characters. The tone and language that the original has. Last week I beat the enderdragon for the first time. I used to only play on public servers or private worlds with friends, even in single player I was a big coward and hated fighting mobs even with keep inventory and no mob griefing, they just stress me out!! But I did it for the first time and I read through the entire end credits of a game I’ve loved for so long for the first time and it made me cry. And you replicated it perfectly which is SO hard to do. The benevolence of the universe, no plot holes to be found about the logic of hels, the voices of the two people and their storytelling and acknowledging of the story. The universe is described so similarly in cannon about the good and bad that it’s like the au fits perfectly. The “why them?” Beautiful. It was like deja vu scrolling through like the end credits with the same benevolent warmth that envelops you like a wordless, comforting presence from this fictional universe. A touching moral about games and stories and people. And just like the end credits of both the game and this fic said, there will be another game and another story. The universe still loves the player just as it did before. This was such a special story to read and I am so glad I did. Genuinely, this will stay with me for a long time, we can learn a lot not just about writing and storytelling techniques, but about ourselves and eachother too.

Thank you.

AUUGHHHH…. genuinely one of the loveliest reviews i’ve ever gotten… your reaction to the finale is everything i could’ve hoped to achieve. thank you thank you THANK YOU <333

[somewhere-in-the-rain]

Empyrean characters’ favourite Taylor Swift albums

I’m bored on a train journey, so naturally I will be going into way too much detail about this. 

Violet: Folklore

My Tears Ricochet, Mirrorball, Seven, Illicit Affairs, Mad Woman

While she can definitely relate to other albums like Midnights and Reputation, I just feel like Folklore would really resonate with Violet, not only because of the venin and the wyverns, but also because of all she’s been through emotionally.

Xaden: Reputation

Ready For It, Endgame, I Did Something Bad, LWYMMD, So It Goes, Dancing With Our Hands Tied

Coming as a shock to absolutely no one, Xaden is forever in his Reputation era.

Ridoc: 1989

Unlike Xaden and Violet, he can’t necessarily relate to any of the songs on this album, but my god would he be vibing to it. When he gets drunk, he launches into a detailed explanation about why I Wish You Would is underrated. 

Jesinia: Lover

Lover, The Archer, Paper Rings, YNTCD, It’s Nice to Have a Friend

Jesinia is Lover because she is currently two for two on love interests in the books. Respect, honestly. 

Imogen: Reputation

Ready For It, I Did Something Bad, Delicate, King of My Heart, Call It What You Want

Similarly to Xaden, she is very Reputation-coded: badass and dangerous on the surface, but a romantic on the inside.

Liam: Midnights

Bigger Than the Whole Sky

I’m just gonna leave this here. 

Dain: Red

I Knew You Were Trouble, I Bet You Think About Me (she doesn’t)

Dain has been listening to break-up songs repeatedly since Violet got together with Xaden. He does karaoke to IKYWT in the bathroom mirror.

Brennan: TTPD

The Tortured Poets Department, How Did It End, I Hate It Here, the Prophecy

Brennan has been permanently stressed for the past six years. I Hate It Here is his favourite because it reminds him of Navarre, but also of the sisters he left behind.

Cat

Cat is a hater. She doesn’t like Taylor Swift.

[hrizantemy]

You know what I am thinking which is really confusing me . Why is it that everyone with blonde hair is from spring court? Everyone from autumn court has red hair! And even night court black black!?!?!! Like i get it I do but I really wish she’d explained better in detail. Like is it because of some court/Fae magic spell type of thing or what?! Like Merrill has white hair so what court is she from then summer or dawn? Mor has blonde hair but is from night court so why does she have blonde hair? Does Clotho have black hair? Is she a brownie head? Are all the priestesses from night court? What is going on? Is Gwen related to someone in autumn even though I hear theories of her being Tamlin daughter which makes no sense at allllllllllll. Because how? SJM count your days for confusing me because when I catch you Ricky ! Ooou when I catch you Ricky !🤧😩 I am reading these books and have so much questions, like at this point make her editors make her rewrite the whole series again and better!!

NO BECAUSE I HAVE THE SAME QUESTIONS. Like SJM really gave us color-coded fae courts and then just never explained why??? 😭

At this point, I’m convinced there’s some kind of magical bloodline enchantment going on, because otherwise, these hair colors should be way more varied. Or maybe fae just don’t have the same genetics as humans, and whatever magic fuels their courts literally dictates their appearances?? Like, if you live in Autumn Court, does your hair just start turning red over time???

I just need one explanation that actually makes sense, because at this point I’m about to write a whole research paper on fae hair color distribution and why it’s suspiciously organized like a fantasy YA aesthetic board. 😩💀

[hurtmehurtmeluv]

Vast Error and Splatoon fans, how do we feel about these? (custom kits and some explanations under cut!)

Sova (Defensive Utility) - Reef-lux, Splash Wall, Baller I don't really know her that well so this one is probably the most shaky out of all of them. I was hoping to give her a more defensive play style here (Splash Wall and Baller)

Dismas (Evade Skirmisher) - .52 gal, Toxic Mist, Triple Splashdown The .52 is here since it takes 2 shots to hit (in reference to 2xbladekind). Toxic Mist and Triple Splashdown don't have too much reason to be on here except that this all together makes a nasty .52 gal kit.

Arcjec (Tank Skirmisher) - Tentabrella, Autobomb, Taticooler Arcjec would tend to use Autobombs the most while hiding behind the huge shield the Tentabrella provides. Taticooler is in reference to not only his obsession with Code Red, but also how he recovers quickly when pushed down (respawn buff from Taticooler). He's also meant to be paired with Ellsee in a way, since her Squid Beacon's can support this specific play style greatly.

Jentha (Special Utility) - Bloblobber, Angle Shooter, Wave Breaker She just feels like it. Like she just feels like a Bloblobber and I can't really explain it too much. Source: just trust me bro. Angle Shooter would be something she'd use in a panic to try and find someone, just a quick 'throw it out' thing while revealing her location at the same time. Wave Breaker suits the non-aggressive play style that I'm trying to go with her.

Ellsee (Evade Skirmisher) - Inkbrush, Squid Beacon, Ink Storm The Inkbrush is meant to be similar to her staff in a way! Also the movement made with a brush flick reminiscent of dancing, nothing too deep with this choice just that it fits the best out of all the weapons. Squid Beacon is in reference to her portals and goes along with Arcjec (see the desc. of his kit for details). Ink Storm is probably the weakest here since I added it only because her last name is Raines (like raining.... storms.....).

Albion (Crossfire Utility) - Heavy Splatling, Ink Mine, Booyah Bomb The Heavy was picked out mostly because its Deco version is very sparkly and shiny, like her quirk! Ink Mine is mostly to tie the kit together and Booyah Bomb is her sort of 'calling upon her friends'. I think this kit fits her a lot more towards the start of the comic but could still be applied later on.

Serpaz (Special Utility) - Big Swig Roller, Sprinkler, Ultra Stamp I tried to sort of play into the idea that she uses toolboxkind so that's why she has a paint roller and a hammer! The sprinkler is to help her build her special.

Laivan (Trick Skirmisher) - Squiffer, Splat Bomb, Triple Inkstrike A Charger for Laivan felt like the obvious choice since he's known to wield a gun (not sure exactly what kind since he doesn't have a confirmed strifespecibus from what i can tell) but I wanted him to contrast Occeus with quirk charges and shorter shots which is why I ended up giving him the Squiffer. Splat Bombs and Triple Inkstrike don't really have a big reason but I think they overall fit as a simple but effective kit.

Occeus (Anchor) - E-Liter Scope, Toxic Mist, Stingray All of these have reasons, mostly relating to the fact his strifespecibus is lazerkind. E-liter is slow charging but has a very high range, with the scope providing greater accuracy. I considered giving him the Tri-Stringer in reference to his three eyes but I feel like the E-Liter Scope feels more true to the way lazerkind works. Toxic Mist is a bit silly as it's entirely there to reference the fact he's a scientist that works with a lot of weird vials and bottles with potentially dangerous substances inside. Stingray basically works the same as lazerkind, cutting through everything around it to hit its targets.

Taz (Slayer) - Luna Blaster, Burst Bomb, Ink Armor The Luna Blaster is fast, powerful and if the direct hit doesn't get you the splash damage will! Powerful, destructive and makes sure to not leave anyone behind, that's how Taz fights. Burst Bomb isn't a reference to anything, just an effective combo with any shots with a main weapon and helpful when you need to ink something quick. Ink Armor is meant to reference how her chucklevoodoo is always active with the 'glint' in her eye, as well as how she's someone who supports others at heart.

Murrit (Slayer) - Tetra Dualies, Point Sensor, Triple Splashdown (plays Bloblobber sometimes just to piss Jentha off) This was the guy who started this whole thing so lets get into it. I chose the Tetra Dualies to allude to the fact that he uses 2xknucklekind. I was thinking to myself "what feels like getting punched in the face when playing a splatoon match?" and it 100% the Tetra Dualies. Point sensor is meant to not only portray how she keeps tabs on everyone but also how she seems like the type to hunt down her targets. Triple Splashdown is mostly because that also feels like a punch in the face (and also how the animation is literally a punch). Overall, I wanted her play style to come across as high risk, high reward.

Calder (Anchor) - Ballpoint Splatling, Curling Bomb, Kraken Royale I tried to find the best way to portray his fighting style (with three different strife specubus's) but the common theme seems to be that they're very long weapons that directly confront the target and have quick 'jabs' at the target. I think the Ballpoint with its ability to have short range bursts accompanied with long range hits, as well as the fact that the fire can be interrupted for continuous fire, portrays that. Curling Bombs feel the closest to golf balls, bouncing around the stage and being able to control how far you put it out (similar to how hard your swing is). Kraken Royale is mostly to allude to the fact that Calder is royalty. He also tends to seem commanding and in control, which is suitable for an anchor.

Obviously, there's plenty of other kits and roles that they can fit into but this is more a kit that reflects bits of themselves rather than the one they would realistically play or would be the best at. I would love to hear some of y'all's opinions on this and your own kit ideas! Here's my attempt at making Murrit in Splatoon.

[milky-rozen]

What’s your opinion on Set x Isis or overall their relationship? 👀I’m curious on how you plan to portray it! 😁

Heya Anon!

Thx for the ask!

Honestly speaking, I haven't seen much about these two as a ship, but I would totally like to, because I think it has a lot of potential! Actually, I think they've got many things in common and they would totally get along if the circumstances were different: like the fact that they're both extremely powerful gods. Set is always described as the strongest God of all and Isis magic is literally unmatched, so together they would make such a very powerful couple, almost invincible! But, unfortunately we all know how the story goes and, in the end, they gotta do what they gotta do.

As for my story, I'm planning to expand more on their relationship and explore their chemistry so that I can give myself a satisfactory explanation to some weird events from the Contendings. I would like to tell you more in detail about my plans but I'm afraid that would be a huge spoiler for the upcoming chapters so I have to stop right here unfortunately. But one thing I can say is that, design wise, there are actually some elements that link these two gods together.

Like the fact that they both wear red clothes, and Isis has half-black half-red hair, just like her sister Nephthys who has half-black half-green hair to match Osiris' colors. It's all a metaphorical code I used to also show how personality-wise these two couples can be pretty similar to each other: we've got Isis and Seth being the strong willful gods that they are while on the other hand, you've got Nephthys and Osiris being basically their opposites, more soft and gentle.

Anyways, generally speaking, to me Set and Isis represent two faces of the same coin, but alas, they're not destined to reconcile due to the horrible things Set has done to her and all the people she cares for. And maybe, it is better this way. With time, they'll learn to let it go and just carry on, as they always do.