#i did all this stuff under duress

[meanderfall]

me: my GOD i feel terrible ive done nothing all day

also me: *did all my laundry and actually put it away afterwards, vaccumed, cleaned my bathroom, washed my dishes, baked two different desserts, washed THOSE dishes as they were being done, took out my trash and recycling, actually ate two whole meals*

me: absolutely nothing

[aparticularbandit]

Okay, but like - Ryoko dissociates. A lot.

I didn't realize that's what it is, but whenever she runs into something that's shocking or terrifying or overwhelming, she shuts off and repeats that it has nothing to do with her over and over until it calms her down. Often, it's an intentional sort of numbing herself until she forgets whatever caused the shut off in the first place; once her short term memory loss kicks in and she forgets, she goes back to normal (mostly. ish).

My thing is...if Ryoko is Junko, is this something that Junko also does? Or once did? As Junko separate from Ryoko? As herself? Or is this something unique to Ryoko?

[fillinforlater]

Minju invites you inside her place to have sex. Would you rather watch her undress while following her to the bedroom or undress her yourself?

Undress Under duress

Male Reader x Kim Minju

Length: 2876 words

Tags: teasing, undressing, outfit change, dirty talk, clothed sex, touching and feeling yourself, watch don't touch torture, rough sex, quick sex, standing sex, from behind, hair pulling, self-indulgence, creampie, Minju is the hottest thing ever, literally the sun can't compare, cursing, teased!you

Inspiration: apart from ask, mostly just the outfits and Minju being so damn hot that I can't help myself

(A/N: Lol that was so easy to write wtf. Yes, I'm working on other stuff, especially the 69th idol story, but those take a lot longer than a quick Minju smut.)

“Hey~”

“Hi~”

Terrible flirtatious greetings often lead to rejection and a bit more tequila in your veins. But not tonight. Tonight it leads to horny giggles by you and the girl that just opened the door for you. The two of you met last night at the most cliche college party you have ever been to. A cliche party deserves some cliche pickup lines, you told yourself, and dropped one after the other until this gorgeous girl gave you her number.

“You look good, standing in this door frame,” you slowly hum, and reach for the top of said frame and lean on it with stretched arms, “but I bet you look better laying in bed.”

She giggles again, bright teeth shine through an even brighter smile. She is one hell of a catch. It’s incredible that she fell for lines like this, in all honesty, you didn’t even try, it just rolled off your tongue. 

“You want to find out?” she asks and you scan her outfit one final time: the baby blue denim of tight jeans is a perfect tease to hide what you assume are amazing legs. Her fuzzy long-sleeve crop-top looks perfect to tear off of her torso and reveal her collarbone and breasts. The fact that she is not wearing shoes makes it even hotter somehow.

“You don’t have to ask twice.”

Enter the small apartment. It's really not that special, minimal decorations, the typical college student chaos of textbooks and papers, an old couch in the corner. The only thing that catches your attention is a large mirror opposite of said couch. It hides the entire wall, floor to ceiling, thus making the room appear much larger than it actually is.

“Sorry, I didn’t find time to clean properly,” the girl says, her back turned to you for a second. You immediately take this opportunity to hug her from behind, arms firmly wrapped around her small waist and wide hips. 

“Don’t worry, Minju, I like dirty things~” you say and place a peck on her cheek. She brushes her hair to the side to give you easy access to her smooth neck, but before you can suck on the skin, she invites you into her mouth. 

The taste of juicy mango on light pink lips is a welcome surprise, so you attack her mouth further with your tongue until you find a quick, thrilling rhythm in which your tongues swirl. Saliva is exchanged, heartbeat increased and your fingers already fiddle with the top button of her pale blue jeans.

“Ha, stop,” Minju moans and reaches for your invading hand. “Sit down. I want to give you a show.”

“Oh, wow, I did not expect this. Alright then.”

You take a seat on the couch opposite of the mirror. Luckily, you don’t have to look at your flushed, horny face for long, as Minju steps in front of it and starts to play with her hair. Her pointers twirl the chestnut colored strands. She pulls the curls that form, making her hair bounce, all the while smiling widely and narrowing her fuck-me eyes.

Suddenly, her hands jump to her collar. Minju makes sure you are attentive, that every ounce of your attention is filled with her every movement, before she gradually moves her hands downwards. They glide through the fuzzy fluff of her white crop top, moving slightly up to pass over her mounds, but they never halt. 

Minju's insane lack of speed makes you shift forward in your seat. You want to, you need to jump up and grab that stupid white piece of clothing and tear it off. But the young woman just smiles seductively and shakes her head. Her hands continue their slow journey, over her toned abs, that beautiful navel until she finally tugs down her jeans a bit.

The first button pops free. That’s it. She doesn’t drag the denim down, doesn’t remove the prison of her legs. Only a slight tug and you see the hem of her what appears to be black lace panties. Your mind begins to melt. You grab the rest of the sofa, squeeze it, almost break it. It’s all right in front of you, but yet so far away.

“You like it~?” Minju teases with a husky whisper.

“Fuck, you’re such a tease,” you respond, eager to see what happens next.

You did not expect Minju to turn around. Sure, her back looks good, at least the parts you can see, but it’d look a lot better if you were railing her from behind, without the stupid crop top in the—

One pull and the crop top flies open. You couldn’t see how Minju did it, but by quickly adjusting your posture, you see in the mirror the reflection of her upper body. A black lace bra, very expensive and luxurious looking, covers her modest breasts. When she gets rid of the crop top all together, you drool at the sight of flawless skin on her collarbone, shoulder, arms.

“Minju, fuck.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

With that said, Minju takes a step backwards, away from the mirror, towards you. Her rear end is still covered by the tight pants, but when you hear her zipper, a rush of hormones and adrenaline engulfs you. Both her hands are at her hips, slowly creeping into the jeans and guiding them down as she bends over. More and more of the hem of her panties is visible, yet she still keeps her ass hidden. God, so close, you want it so much, you are ready to fall on your knees and beg. 

Minju catches your gaze through the mirror. She winks and puts out her tongue to taunt you, the deeply breathing, incredibly horny guy a meter away from her butt. Even though she could drag this torture out forever (and frankly, you would sit there and drool forever), she pulls back her tongue and bites her lip.

The firm skin of her cute ass comes into view. A black thong runs in between the well-formed cheeks. Minju lets the pants rest right underneath her butt and straightens her posture. A tiny shimmy, the cheeks begin to wiggle lightly. You are out of breath.

“I know it’s not the biggest, but it seems you like small butts,” she giggles and continues to let her pants fall in short hops. Her meaty, perfectly formed, round thighs make your heart flutter to an extreme you could not have dreamed of. For some reason, the finish was too fast. You can’t just jump up and fuck her now, but it’s exactly what you still desperately desire.

“You are such a slutty tease. I’ll fuck you so hard—”

“This was only part one,” Minju says. Her laughter rings through the apartment as she jogs out of the room. 

Minju returns shortly after with a completely different outfit. A simple pink dress with tiny gems spread all over it in simple patterns. The marvelous, mouth watering width of her hips is accentuated perfectly and invokes a want in you, a want to cum inside her. Not only cum inside, but also hold her hips while doing it and feeling her womanhood suck you dry. 

“What do you think of it?” she asks and turns around once.

“It’s good, good, but for fucks sake, I want it on the ground,” you grunt. 

“Do you know why I like black thongs the most?” Minju asks, completely ignoring your response. Her eyes have this gleam of unbridled sex, as if nothing else mattered now, just raw, primal sex. But yet she still seems cool, unaffected, the lust is not overtaking her.

“No clue.”

“Because you can’t see how wet I am.”

With that said, she grabs the hem of the dress and gently lifts it up an inch. Your orbs widen and focus on her gap. Sure, she might show more of her delicious thighs, but you want to finally see her pussy. You expect her to pull up a bit more, but instead, she moves her fingers to the sides and sways the dress as if it were a skirt waving in the summer breeze. Her cute giggle would fill your heart if you weren’t so damn blinded by how much you hate her tease. 

You hate the way your perfectly fitting pants become uncomfortable  to wear. You despise the fact that your boxers are ruined by a stain of precum already. You can’t deal with her delighted mood, not at all innocent, but also not uncontrollably horny. Minju is in control, and for some reason, through all your hate, you fucking love it.

“Minju, please,” you squeeze out through gritted teeth.

“Please what~?”

“Please… pull the damn dress up.”

She laughs. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

The pink cotton moves up to reveal her midriff and crotch, the former bare, toned and beautiful, the latter only covered by a thin, ornate thong. It’s sexy beyond belief, but the black barrier still blocks your view of what you imagine is a shaved, wet pussy.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“You want more?” Minju whispers, the bunched up dress firmly in her hands, ready to give you more—or is it just another tease?

“Yes!”

Minju raises an eyebrow at your lackluster answer. “Yes what?”

“Yes, please. Please, Minju!”

“There you go,” she bluntly says and easily pulls the dress over her head, then lets it fall out of her relaxing hand. Tension visibly leaves her entire body, she relishes in your gaze as it wanders up to her bare tits. They are a bit smaller than you assumed after seeing the bra, but your monkey brain wants to reach for them, pinch the hard nipples, and suck on them with reckless roughness. They are perfect, flawless, if you actually think about it. 

“I can’t hold it anymore, I need you now.” 

The words come from your mouth quickly. You stand up, hands already tearing open your pants, but Minju is a bit quicker. She places her hand on your heaving chest. In her deepest, most seductive tone yet she strikes you an offer that cracks the foundations of your imaginations.

“Before you go at me, hear me out. Either you can stay here, suck my tits the entire night and fuck me once with one of your stupid condoms.

“Or you can sit down again, watch the final show, and I’ll let you do anything to me. You can let all of your frustrations out, fuck me senseless with your hard cock. I don’t care if I can’t walk or talk anymore, I don’t care if I leak your fucking cum all over the apartment. Yes, you can even do it raw.”

You struggle to pull your pants back together. Your cock was almost free, now it’s not only getting blocked by clothes and the short distance between it and Minju’s cunt, but also Minju’s insane offer. Her hand is still on your chest, applying a small bit of pressure. You let yourself succumb to it rather than the spontaneous lust. Fall back into the couch and simply nod. 

“I think I know the answer.”

Minju winks and sneaks out of the room slowly, her hips swaying to the point where your head just sways along with them. This time, she stays out for longer, but what even is the time you have to wait in light of what is to come afterwards? Even if she walks out wearing an entire hanbok, you’d wait for her to finish this torturous game, undressing each layer of the excessively large dress.

“What do you think of this~?” the brunette moans as she enters. Your jaw drops and your eyes become unfocused. Minju hit another spot.

“Fuck,” you repeat your new found mantra at the sight of Minju doing gradual body rolls in her final outfit, another crop top and hotpants, both come with a catch. 

The crop top is black but slightly see through, to the point where you can make out that she is not wearing a bra. The gray hot pants are frayed at the edges, to the point where you doubt they cover her full. As Minju continues her little dance, you catch glimpses of what is below those pants. Nothing. No thong, no panties, just her juicy pussy lips. 

She is skilled however. You can never get a satisfying look at her entrance. These milliseconds are just another way to tease you. The way her hips move, Minju makes sure to not give you enough, to make you more addicted to the drug that is her body. You’re about to burst, in more ways than one.

“You’re doing fantastic,” Minju says and makes her hands go down her waving body, over breasts, abs, thighs, you know the drill. “I’ll give you a look.”

This time, no button is popped open. Minju wiggles the tight gray denim down until it’s loose enough. She drops it to her knees in one motion. Her pussy is finally exposed, free of any teasing blockades. It’s even prettier than you imagined. Smooth, shaven skin around it, pink labia, cute hidden clit. 

“Do you like it?”

Nod.

“Do you want it?”

Nod, nod, nod, a million times.

“Then what do you say?”

“Please~ oh my God, please, Minju!”

Your desperate, pleading shout makes Minju stick out her tongue as she gives tiny rubs to her more than wet clit.

“Come and get it.”

Jump up, pin Minju to the mirror. Your cock spring free on its own—nah, she was helping, but what’s the difference really? To her audible surprise, you don’t kiss Minju or remove her clothes. Instead, you pull her hot pants back up and tear them open. They are unusable in public now, but they are more than useful for what you’re going to do with her. 

“Hey, those were my favorites!” Minju protests.

“I don’t care,” you growl and lift her left leg up.

“You better don’t care. Use me like a fucking sex doll. No more hesitation.”

“You’re one to talk, teasing slut.”

Align your cock with her entrance. Hot and wet, like your tip already is.

“Fuck, I’ll probably cum immediately. Shit,” you curse and feel like hitting yourself for this lack of self-control.

“No problem,” Minju responds, needily, holding onto your nape, “I’ll make sure to keep your cock warm and clean it so you can repeatedly fuck me. 

“Also, I’m going to cum too.”

Piston your entire dick into her with one thrust. She pulls you in at your nape, you pull at her back. The two of you let all of your emotions out in screams and growls, before grunting and moaning when you start to fuck her against the mirror. It rattles each time you force Minju’s butt against it with your pelvis. 

You lose your mind to the pressure on your shaft. Minju’s pussy was loose, easy to penetrate at first, but now her walls grind all around your cock. Things get even better when the young woman cums with an erotic, feminine moan. Her cunt milks you, it’s ripple and hotness too much to handle. After mere seconds you burst.

Engage in a torrid make out session as you flood Minju’s tightness with your seed. The teasing session had the same effect as edging. You blast and blast and blast, huge, thick spurts of cum until Minju disconnects her lips to let both of you breathe. 

“Fuck, keep it in me. I’ll keep it war—”

“Shut up, slut.”

Your blunt response is followed by an even blunter action. Pull out of Minju and spin her around. With a lewd squelching sound, a considerable amount of your baby batter falls onto the floor before you can plug the hole again. She gasps in shock as you pin her body between you and the cold mirror. 

“You’re not going to give me commands,” you grunt into her ear and start to pump your spent, still hard cock into her leaking cunt. Eager to feel all of you, Minju presses her ass backwards until your pelvises meet. Get a handful of her hair while you take her from behind.

“Fuck, that’s the spirit,” Minju babbles through her drooling mouth. You firmly grab her hip to make the fucking easier. Your eyes go to the mirror. The reflection is not embarrassing to you anymore, you feel fucking feral at the sight of two bodies in their prime fucking. 

Minju must think the same thing. She can’t stop gawking at her own image, feeling herself, her body getting plowed. This self-indulgence, this arrogance she possesses makes you livid. She only wants to be looked at, her moves, her teases. She acts like you’re not there—although your cock reaches her womb and hits her cervix again and again. 

You increase the pace and press her stupidly gorgeous face against the mirror.

“You like your face, slut?”

“Hm~”

“Then make out with it.”

And as Minju closes her eyes and slobbers all over the hot image of herself, you don’t hesitate to slap her hourglass figure to make sure she remembers you. You are there, you were there—and you’re gonna stay for a bit longer, always cumming into Minju’s cunt.

[definitelynotshouting]

Idk if this is Hunger AU canon or my own personal fanon but

one of the "calling cards" that the Watchers used in Evo was bedrock

bedrock is unbreakable by a player

perfect for trapping the player you're using as a Watcher incubator

and the texture looks rough af

when you get desperate you often try to do stuff to escape even if it's impossible, right

so what I'm saying is

probably one of the last things player!Grian did was tearing his hands to shreds trying to break bedrock out of sheer desperation

which makes all the passages in your fic where he's staring at his hands even more *gestures vaguely*

(idk why I typed this out in this format but it felt right so I'm going with it)

MAN OKAY THIS IS SUPER COOL i especially adore how youve connected it with the way i keep having Grian stare at his own hands???? which ftr is smth ive only just now realized i do all the time AKDBWKDJKSSJ this is JUST like the scarian jaw kisses thing HELPPPP 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 but thats such a cool thought!!! And utterly angsty i love it >:]

Its also made me realize i dont think ive ever actually told yall what did happen during that interim where Grian was captive as a Player before he died and became a Watcher, so buckle in i guess as i try to explain this one to yall (obligatory cws for captivity, parasitism, violated autonomy, body horror, and major character death discussion)

Yknow the world borders the life series has?? It was like that, but tiny. Maybe a couple chunks' worth of space to move around in. He spawned into a savannah biome and the Watchers specifically in charge of keeping an eye on him (pun intended) penned him in with the borders, implanted the specially-coded larva, and then retreated back just outside the server's barrier code to, well. To Watch.

So post Evo dragon fight the Watchers convinced Grian to join them without telling him what that entailed. They then proceeded to whisk him away to the server cluster's dev crystal, which is where the remnants of this Watcher colony made their semi-permanent home. There, held together basically only by the Watchers' ability to manipulate code, they had Grian make a brand new server.... and immediately trapped him in it.

He spent a year there slowly dying, eaten from the inside out by a parasite that was collecting his memories, copying over his stats and personality, with very limited space and resources to get by with. I know he built a tiny house out of acacia, but it never got any bigger than a starter base. He lived off of mostly bread and the meat from a few animals that spawned in with him; he primarily used stone tools, because those were what was most readily available. It was a very terrifying and lonely year, where all access to the outside world was cut off, and he was meticulously watched over to keep from dying while the larva inside him continued to grow and destroy him.

The Watchers were mostly hands-off in terms of interaction, but they did do regular check-ins to ensure the larva was alive and that there was no danger present to its host. Hostile mobs were carefully warded off, and Grian spent most of his time alternating between begging them to let him go (they never responded), trying to figure out ways to escape (it never worked), and tending to baseless chores just to keep from going out of his mind as his body grew weaker and weaker and more unstable around him.

I have a lot of feelings about this tbh, bc its just such a bleak scenario to think about-- trapped in a tiny cage with something killing you from the inside out, and your captors wont even talk to you about it properly. Being left otherwise to your own devices, with the terrible, lingering knowledge that, even if it was under duress, you still agreed to this. The fact that, after a certain point, after your questions and pleas are summarily ignored and brushed aside, you finally realize: you aren't meant to survive this. You are going to die.

A juvenile Watcher's first meal are the emotions during their host's last few moments. Grian was no exception; he cracked his way out of his own ribcage, and, without meaning to, amplified and feasted on Player!Grian's agony and terror as he died. With their memory codes finally disconnected, Grian had to watch himself through the eyes of a stranger as his terrified consciousness dissolved and his body fell apart into nothing more than loose strings of code.

Only then, still weak and flailing and helpless, was he was brought into the colony proper, in order to teach him how to be a Watcher. It wouldnt be for another few years before Grian gained the strength, control, and insight required to make his desperate escape. In total, i wanna say he spent somewhere between.... 4-6 years??? with the colony against his will. It would take another 4 for him to finally scrape together the courage to contact Mumbo and finally ask him for an invite into the Hermitcraft proper

One of these days i do plan to write that reunion, actually, which i'll add to the series as another prequel just like all the words that i forgot to say, which takes place roughly 6-8 months after Grian finally joins Hermitcraft. And if yall want to read an absolutely fantastic fic that deals with the moment Watcher!Grian was born and Player!Grian died, you should absolutely check out my friend @raichett 's fic Divergency, which ive pretty much canonized bc it REALLY hits the nail on the head for that situation.

Okay this got a lot longer than i meant it to sidhskdjej also those timeframes are a little squiggly bc i havent fully settled on where they fall on the general timeline. I wanna say Grian had been a Watcher for abt a decade by the time Mumbo got him onto Hermitcraft, though, so thats the loose timeline im working off of when i talk abt this :] anyway thanks for giving me an excuse to write this all out!!! while your idea about the bedrock isnt necessarily canon, i absolutely ADORE it and can totally see Grian just tearing up his hands while scrabbling against the world border.... utterly heartbreaking we fucking LOVE to see it. Thanks for sending in your ask!!! I always love seeing what you have to say about hunger au!!! :DDD

[pondslime]

subterranean

FANDOM : house of wax (2005) PAIRING : bo sinclair x afab!fem!reader RATING : explicit 🔞 WORDCOUNT : 3.9k

Reader POV. Basement fuckery. He tells you it's to keep you humble. It’s really just to keep you scared. The distinction doesn’t matter. You end up here again and again, knees biting into the concrete.

Crossposted on A03 here.

⚠️ Stockholm Syndrome. VERY dubious consent under duress. This was supposed to just be porn without plot. But then I lost my goddamn mind. Oops. Decent amount of weird prose. Depersonalization and derealization. Pet play (but make it weird and kinda metaphorical). Collaring. Forced boot riding. Vibrator and anal plug use. Bondage/gagging/edging. Bo at his absolute WORST (his natural state), being smug and mean and awful. Dirty talk dialed ALL the way up. Extremely dehumanizing and degrading language. Mind break elements. LOTS of backhanded praise. ⚠️

You always got too comfortable.

A lifetime before—when you were first here—you sat on this mattress with him, swallowing down mouthfuls of cold beef and carrots. You can remember the soup swirling in the can, murky and brown like a puddle of stagnant rainwater. He hadn't bothered to warm it up for you, but it hadn’t mattered. The food was something. Sometimes it felt like everything.

You licked the broth off the spoon as he plugged another tape into the VCR.

“One of my favorites.” He told you. Of course it was. Every movie he showed you down here was one of his favorites. Every can of soup might be the last. It was always the same things, over and over.

That’s when you started to lose track of time, you think—when you’d started to cling onto all that nothing.

Time wasn’t all that bad of a thing to lose, was it? Who needed it when his thumb was rubbing against your knee, stroking up your skin? The soup was cold, and his hand was warm. You traded one for the other and you liked it.

Funny. Thoughts like that always felt like they came with an or else tacked at the end.

A chunk of potato sat unpleasantly on your tongue—almost bitter, gravel in your mouth. Just like everything else, you swallowed it down.

He pressed play, his fingers drifting up your thigh. The TV quality was fuzzy, interrupted by the occasional flicker of static. Sometimes the films he chose would start in the middle of scenes. You’d get brief glimpses of things he’d recorded over—the triumphant blare of a talk show theme cutting off mid-note, dropping you in media res. He always assured you that you weren’t missing anything. At least that was one thing he didn’t bother lying about.

The movie wasn’t why you remembered that day, though. It was because of something he’d asked you.

“Where’d ya’ grow up?”

You hadn’t known what to say. He never asked you things like that. Your confusion only deepened when you turned towards him. There was no tension in his jaw, no furrowing of his brow. He looked, for the first time, wholly and startlingly calm.

When you failed to answer, he leaned forward and switched the TV off. He never did that either.

“Tell me ‘bout it. Whatchu do out there, anyway?”

You always regret not lying to him.

The world had shrunk down so much in the time you’d been in the town that it almost felt like you could gather it up and stuff it in your pocket.

You think about home. It looks different now.

Spidery tendrils of dust cling to the gaps between the balusters. It’s so difficult to get light in the house. No matter how many windows you open, there are always corners lost to shadow.

It’s strange how you could be up there one day, replacing the bulb under a fringed lampshade—and the next, you’d be tumbled back underground.

Just last week, you were lying on the couch in the living room.

The dog had padded into the room. She’d been gone for the better part of the day. With the doors unlocked, she went wherever she pleased. It had worried you at first, but it didn't anymore. She'd never leave town. She knew better.

At least, that’s what he’d said.

“Come here, beautiful.”

Jumping up, she curled into the space beside you. You wrapped your arm around her, wrinkling your nose. She reeked terribly of dog, stale corn chips and dirt and musk. You wondered if she might let you give her a bath now that you were in her good graces. It took a while to get there, but she came around. In a manner of speaking, the same thing had happened with you.

Pretty funny, huh?

Earlier, you'd been thinking about the puppies in the pet store window. Did she know about them? Slumbering away behind glass and dust, forever only a couple breaths old. Click. A switch was flipped, and they were as alive as they would ever be, nestled on newspaper shavings. On days like this, did she ever make her way down the hill to see them?

“Girls don’t last in this town.” You murmured, scratching behind her ear. “Just me and you, yeah?”

With a huff, she buried her head in the crook of your neck. It seemed like she was done listening to you.

That was fair, really. Half the time you weren’t even saying what you were really thinking anymore—and when you did, you weren't entirely sure that you made much sense. So much of yourself was locked up in your head and you kept forgetting where you left the keys. It all got clogged up inside your skull and oozed out of your mouth in a trail of sickly platitudes. You were just so thankful, so grateful.

“Sorry.” You whispered. You were always sorry for something, and sometimes you even meant it.

The rays of light were receding off of the arm of the couch, crawling up the wall. Your thoughts filled the living room. You could almost see them floating through the air, bouncing off each other like bubbles. Fleeting, effervescent things, popping as soon as you tried to track their paths. When you turned your head, you could smell his cologne. It was his jacket, hanging discarded over the couch cushions.

For a sudden, terrifying moment, you missed him.

That’s when you said the prayer. You didn't know where you meant for it to go. You guessed it was for whoever was around to hear it. Most days it was him and some of the time it was his mother. Both choices rang false. If God was still in this town, it was here, caught in these beams of light. Or maybe God was the dog heavy on top of you, her breath a rhythmic rumble against your throat.

Maybe you wouldn’t last long. Maybe it was all just wishful thinking.

Today, Bo fastens the collar around your neck. The leather feels heavy against your skin.

He tells you it’s to keep you humble. It’s really just to keep you scared. The distinction doesn’t matter. All the light bulbs you screw in will eventually need to be replaced. Wiping away the dust only gives way to more dust. You'll end up here again and again, knees biting into the concrete.

This almost feels more like his room than the one he sleeps in up at the house. Here, you can feel him more than anywhere else. There's more of you down here too. Real, tangible parts of yourself. Look around. There you are in the stain on the mattress, the blood crusted on the vinyl.

Welcome back, baby.

You keep your gaze on the ground, searching for something to bore your eyes into. Your eyes land on his shoes. Flecked with dirt, they bear obvious signs of wear. There’s a sizable hole in the toe of one of them. You focus in on that as he readjusts the collar, tightening the strap around your neck.

Embarrassment heats your cheeks as you hear him click the leash into place. Even without looking up at him, you can picture the expression on his face. It isn’t a good one. You still can’t decide if he looks more or less like himself when he screws his face up like that.

Tugging roughly at the leash, he forces you to look up at him. Wrists bound; your hands flex uselessly against your back.

“Please—”

Without warning, he sticks his fingers into your mouth, forcing them to the back of your throat. You choke, your hands flexing in panic behind your back. When he pulls them out, you cough, eyes watering.

“Now, normally I like hearin’ you, baby.” He says, smiling down at you. His face is a discordant thing. All American, boy next door. A slice of apple pie that someone put a cigarette out in. “But you know somethin’—”

He crouches down in front of you, still smiling. You watch him silently, shifting anxiously on your knees.

“I never did meet a dog who could talk.” Reaching over, he flicks at the metal ring on the collar. “Feels wrong.”

Dropping the leash, he gets to his feet, striding away. You crane your neck to the side as he rustles around behind you. After a moment, he lets out an affirmative grunt.

Quickly, you pivot your head back to the front. Making his way back to stand in front of you, your eyes flash to the item in his hands. Seemingly amused by your concern, he dangles it in front of you.

It’s a ball gag, shiny and black—noticeably a hair newer than the rest of the junk down here. Maybe he bought it just for you. It’d make a pretty lousy gift, but then again, he was always shit at stuff like that.

He had an incredible knack for getting you shit that you never asked for. Everything came with conditions, a laundry list of provisos and conditions that you didn't remember signing up for. Everything he gave you was actually for him.

“Open up, baby.”

Before you can think to do as he asks, his thumb forces your mouth open, pressing down on your teeth. You sputter as he forces the gag into your mouth, securing it around the back of your neck.

“That’s better, yeah?” He asks, grabbing hold of the leash again.

You stare up at him, exhaling tight bursts of air through your nose. You tilt your head a bit, working your jaw around the ball. Your teeth rest uncomfortably on the rubber.

“You been so good today, think we outta give that pussy some attention, huh?” He smirks. “Whatchu think?”

You whine, the noise coming out in an embarrassingly wet gurgle. Spit runs out of your mouth, dripping down your chin and trickling onto your neck.

“So cute.” His voice is syrupy sweet. He can play at authenticity, but never with you.

He kicks your thighs apart with his foot, nudging the tip of his boot between your legs. His eyebrows shoot up expectantly as he nods down at you.

“Go on, then.”

Disgust is an old friend. She disappears for months at a time, only to show up unexpectedly as if no time has passed. She’s back again, turning your stomach around in her hands. You tilt your hips down. Rubbing yourself against the tip of his shoe, you wonder if he’s doing this for old times' sake.

Rocking forward, you imagine a glossy magazine cover. You could see him on the cover of one. He does have the face for it, when he bothers to put it on.

Bored? 50 Ways to Keep the Spark Alive!

Your jaw is beginning to ache. Bo's hand strokes softly at the top of your head. You hate that the pressure against your clit almost feels good. Your mind unhelpfully supplies more article titles, bubbling up in your mind in obnoxiously curly lettering.

10 Mouth Exercises For The Modern Woman. Have You Tried Screaming? It’s All The Rage in This Town. Once You Start, You Won’t Want to STOP!

“That’s it.” He grins. “What a little slut.”

You look up at him pleadingly, another dribble of spit running down your chin.

“Always got told ya’ shouldn’t let dogs up on the bed.” He muses, the amusement plain in his voice. “But you been on your best behavior, huh?”

Last week, you fell asleep on the couch. You woke up somewhere else.

It was dark and you were pressed against something warm. Not the dog, not the light. Those were both gone. His jacket hanging off the side of the couch, maybe. But it was moving now, and so were you.

“Gotta getcha to bed.” He’d muttered, carrying you up the stairs.

You lay across Bo's lap, the side of your cheek against the dirty mattress. You shudder, your legs shaking.

“Pretty girl.” Reaching over, he tugs you up by the leash, forcing your head back.

Every breath you take seems to make your muscles clench around the plug in your ass. He works it in and out of you slowly and you gulp, shallow breaths whistling out of your nostrils. Every time you jolt forward you can feel him press against you, hard against your belly.

“Hey. What’s wrong, baby? That hurt?”

You nod frantically.

“Huh. Funny…'cuz I don't think it does. You wanna know how I know?” You feel him spread you open, fingers dipping into your pussy. “You’re wet for it, baby.”

He pushes the plug deeper, and your head spins at the sensation. A warbling moan pitches out of your mouth as you feel it sink fully into you. You shiver uncontrollably, whimpering around the gag. Saliva gathers on your tongue, and you feel it spill out of the side of your mouth, pooling under your cheek.

“Good.” He rumbles out, stroking his knuckles along your back. “That’s my good girl.”

You squeeze your eyes shut when you feel him nudge something between your legs. With a click, the vibrator buzzes to life. You let out a startled cry as he strokes it along your pussy.

“It’s nice, huh?” He chuckles. “Don’tchu act like I never gave you anything.”

The vibrator teases against your clit in short bursts, pressing down just long enough to leave you panting before he pulls it away. Almost enough, not quite. You arch back uselessly, chasing after that glittery warm sensation. He laughs a bit, holding the vibrator just above your clit.

You can feel the edge of pleasure, but it’s nothing more than a distant dull thrum. He keeps you hovering over it for what feels like forever, squirming over a feeling that’s hardly there. You bite down on the gag, your sob watery and muffled around the rubber.

“This body’s all mine, girl.” He murmurs, running his thumb down your spine. “I ain’t gotta make it feel good.”

With a hum, he rests the vibrator fully onto your clit. The sensation you’ve been chasing envelopes you, shimmering through your core. Nasally, high-pitched whines escape you in quick, desperate succession.

“But I do, don’t I? ‘Cuz I’m just so sweet.”

You open your eyes, staring up at him in bleary gratitude. He presses down on the plug. The discomfort has crested over and all you feel now is loose and pliant. You moan around the gag, your eyes fluttering.

“You like having somethin’ in your ass while I play with this pussy?”

And you nod, humming out your agreement.

“Mmm-hmm? Yeah?” He teases, mimicking your garbled reply. "That's good, baby. That's real good. Reckoned I’d fuck your ass today, but that pussy’s gettin’ nice and wet for me. Whatchu think? Which hole you want fucked?”

You mumble incoherently through the gag.

“All of ‘em?” He exclaims, the grin evident in his voice. “Well, ain’t that real sweet. Good answer, baby.”

He keeps talking, but it’s getting harder to focus on what he’s saying.

“Next crew that comes through here—maybe I’ll tell ‘em I got a slut who needs breakin’ in. You spread those legs so nice, sure you’d fuckin’ love it.”

The image flashes through your mind. Hands everywhere, laughter and heat and friction from a kaleidoscope of people destined for death. You’re in the middle of all of those faceless people—a tribute to be used up, one last meal for a parade of living corpses.

You’re all destined for the same end, but theirs is closer than they know. Yours is prolonged, tied around touches and salt.

Bo would be in the corner, lighting another cigarette—watching, because he’s always watching. Mouth twitching into a smile because he’s right again. You’re exactly what he thinks you are. You’ll keep your eyes on him because you can’t look at anyone else. After all, if it isn’t his hands, could you even feel it? Would it even count?

The panic is sudden and hot, twisting inside your chest. A desperate little whine builds at the back of your throat.

If I’m everybody else's, I can’t be yours.

“I’d have a hard time sharin’, though.”

Relief. The vibrator pulses against your clit and your eyes go unfocused.

“’S funny. Gotchu down here—and nobody knows.”

Between your legs, your pussy feels pathetically wet, sloppily sliding along the vibrator. You almost wish he’d keep you like this forever, jolts of pleasure lapping hungrily between your legs.

“If there’s even anybody out there lookin’ for ya’…” He muses. “Wish they could see ya’ now, huh? Don’t think they’d feel bad for you, baby.”

Pleasure rolls dizzily through you, electric licks of sensation as he rubs the vibrator against your clit. The rubber in your mouth is an anchor, it feels good on your teeth.

“Betchu thought you were really somethin’ out there.” He chuckles. “How’s it feel to find out you ain’t? Feels good, don’t it?”

You open your eyes and nod up at him, panting out your agreement. Through the haze, you see him smirk. It’s a cruel, cold thing. You’re all full and useless, but he doesn’t need you to say it, because he knows. Thoughtlessly, you shift in his lap, trying desperately to spread your legs wider for him.

“Nothin’ but a little fucktoy.” He coos. “That’s all you are, baby. Want you to remember that.”

He doesn’t need to worry. You remember everything, except what counts.

“Good girls cum, baby. They can’t help it.”

You’re hurtling higher and higher, the pleasure battering against your brain. That’s where the memories are, where the time used to be. It feels better to fill it with this. But then again, you’ve known that from the start.

“Go on, baby. Cum all pretty for me, yeah?”

And you do, a million times over.

He keeps the vibrator pressed firmly against your clit as you tense up, your hands clenching into tight fists behind your back. Your orgasm is a bone-deep shiver, wracking your legs with uncontrollable chills. The pleasure throttles through the last of your coherency, prizing a desperate noise from your throat. Maybe it’s a word. It might be his name. It might just be the time. Maybe this is how you find it again.

The buzz of the vibrator goes dim and far away as he holds it against you. You’re twitching somewhere above it. Each involuntary movement you make brings with it a new hiccup of sensation. Around you, the room seems to spin—whirling into a terrific blur of green and yellow.

It can be beautiful down here, if you squint.

When he lifts the vibrator off your clit, you pitch forward, warbling out a dizzy laugh behind the gag. You wait for the sound of the wand powering off. It doesn't come. Behind you, the buzzing is a low, incessant drone. You’ve barely managed to ground yourself when you hear it kick up a notch.

Click.

The sheets smell like all the thousand versions of you, each one answering questions she shouldn’t. Four walls surround you and they feel like they’re collapsing down on all sides. They could be made of plaster or stone, but they might just be something else. Your limbs, your heart, your mind, him. Separate appendages, but all linked. All part of the same crumbling structure.

A scream builds at the back of your throat as you feel him set it back on your clit.

“We ain’t done, baby.”

Your sleep is deep. Quiet. Only one dream.

Bo’s sitting on the edge of the bed, an inky blot in the gray morning light. He makes a move to stand up and you grab onto his arm.

“Go back to bed, angel.” He murmurs.

It almost sounds real enough.

When you wake up, you're alone. You try the door and find it unlocked.

Figures.

Upstairs, the shop is empty. There’s a can of unopened Coke on the counter. You crack it open and take a sip. Lukewarm bubbles of carbonation fizz over your tongue. God, he really was shit with gifts.

Walking up the hill, you catch your reflection in the window of a sedan. You look haggard, your hair a raggedy clump around your shoulders. You try the handle and it cracks open easily. Crawling into the dirty belly of the car, you wince as you lower yourself down into the seat. You sit with one leg dangling out, absentmindedly studying the dusty speedometer.

There are cars in other towns, parked on different streets. There are places without dust. There are always other futures. Sometimes you turn down the wrong road, and sometimes you die. Sometimes you don’t.

That’s just the way these things go.

You imagine the town collapsing in on itself like a pop-up book. There’s Bo, frowning down at it. He seemed like he’d been the type of kid that wasn’t allowed to check those kinds of things out from the library. He’d bring them back with pages ripped out, scrawled with pen marks. Pilled white card stock where faces used to be.

God, you’re miserably sore. It’s impossible to narrow down the ache to a certain part of you.

Lifting your leg into the car, you pull the door shut. The dust inside tickles your nose. Unthinkingly, you reach up, your fingers brushing against the metal buckle of the seatbelt. The sting is sharp and immediate. You pull your hand away with a hiss, your hand smarting. When you reach for the seatbelt again, you’re careful to avoid the clip.

You buckle yourself in. Click. Alive again, now more than ever. Wrapping your hands around the steering wheel, you close your eyes. The leather is hot against your palms, and it hurts a bit. Just a little. That’s just the pain again, but you don’t really mind. It’s something you can keep. It’s all yours.

Nothin’ you can’t handle, girl.

That’s what he said last night. Afterwards.

You were laying with your head in his lap, the itchy crust of dried spit against your cheek. It was then that you decided that you were so ugly that you had to be beautiful. You had to be worth looking at. You’d rolled over on your back, looking up at him through swollen eyes. That’s when he said it, so low and quiet that you almost didn’t register it. There’d been a an edge of pride to his voice.

Nothin’ at all.

A lick of pleasure thrums between your legs and your eyes flash open. You unbuckle the seatbelt and scramble out of the car, ignoring the pain that sings through your limbs.

Things like that? They always came with an or else tacked at the end. You remember that, don’t you? You couldn’t have forgotten.

Looming above you, the house is a dark blot of ink against the blue sky.

There were no collars for dogs in this town—they didn’t need them. They’d always find their way back home, pawing at the door for some scraps. The only leash is the one that exists in your mind. You can almost see it, trailing off your neck and up the hill, looped messily around the front doorknob.

You were going to die here with all that wetness between your legs, begging him to take out more of you with his teeth.

It's like he said.

You don’t need to tie up a dog if it loves you.

[yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt]

More headcanons about my comic fanchild Gregor Blackheart! (Mostly about the C! Goldenhearts as parents)

I want to draw him again, esp as a kiddo/baby, but drawing kiddos and babies is hard. Their proportions ain't right

- When Gregor was born, Ambrosius literally did not want to allow anyone else (besides sometimes Ballister) to hold him ever. Having his own baby brought up so many feelings of childhood trauma that he went into full protector-mode, and felt panicky if the baby was anywhere but his arms. Ballister had to put his foot down to not allow Ambrosius to co-sleep for safety reasons, their compromise was to have the crib right next to the bed

- Ballister derived immense enjoyment by planning cute kid-friendly science experiments and doing them together, and watching his son get so excited by the baking soda volcanoes and stuff

- Ambrosius likes to hide little toys in the garden while he's gardening, so as a kid Gregor would spend time with him in the garden looking for "buried treasure"

-Gregor loves science but he's not good at math, so he doesn't plan to become a scientist like his dad or auntie Meredith

- Meredith and Nimona have a friendly argument over who named Gregor. "I gave Ballister the idea in the first place" vs "I called Ballister Gregor which made him realize what a good name it was." Ballister always interrupts the arguments with "My partner and I are the ones that named him. I don't see your signatures on the birth certificate."

-Gregor was a colicky baby and would have long crying fits regularly which stressed his parents out a lot. Ballister was low-key very worried because of Ambrosius's tendency to lose control of his actions when he was under extreme emotional duress that he might accidentally shake Gregor. So whenever Gregor was colicky and Ballister noticed Ambrosius start crying or rocking back and forth or stimming, he'd swoop in to take over and send Ambrosius to go lie down. He never told Ambrosius about his concerns for fear he'd interpret it as Ballister calling him a bad parent. He was unaware that Ambrosius was also, and in fact much more terrified of the exact same thing happening

-As a little kid Gregor loved riding around in Ambrosius's wheelchair on his lap, he thought of it as like a fun ride (Ambrosius started using his wheelchair more on long public outings because it was easier for him to carry his baby than when he was using a cane or crutch)

- Ballister read every baby book. Every. Single. One. He did a library's worth of research before his child arrived and all of it flew right out of his brain the second Gregor was placed in his arms.

-Gregor had much lighter features as a baby than when he got older. His eyes went from blue-green to hazel in his first weeks of life, and his hair went from dirty-blond to dark brown when he was a young child (cue Ballister "who's goddamn white baby is that" /j )

-Gregor was also a chonky baby (I hc Ballister was as well) aside from his coloring and his nose, newborn Gregor was the chubby, bald, spitting image of baby Ballister.

That's all I got rn teehee

[desultory-novice]

Noir, did you know there are other beings capable of bringing art to life like Adeleine? One if them actually being a sentient paintbrush!

(Points to the paintbrush from Kirby Canvas Curse)

(...Art's subjective and all but, wow, that is a really tacky brush...)

"I don't know about a sentient one (though at this point, I'm not that surprised...) but watch what you say about my little sister..."

"It's not 'her' doing it. She's a normal kid, okay? It's the paintbrush I got her that's the reason she's even able to bring stuff to..."

-

"...Amazing! The ability to not just imbue but CREATE life! We had a feeling the Three Matters in such great amassing would call their Fourth! We've hypothesized they're deeply connected, you see. And speaking of... "

"...We've figured out a use for the boy, finally!"

"Under extreme duress, we believe his 'power' should be able to fuse with this little one's to create being that could both create AND control... !"

"...AGH?! What are you--?!"

"Grab the children! RUN!"

"Noir, take my hand!!"

"T-They're escaping! D-Don't let them get away...!"

-

"...!?!"

"W...what...?"

"...What keeps...going on...?"

-

[Noir's Field Trip Masterpost]

AN: I love when random asks turn out to have the PERFECT phrasing >w< Thank you, anon!

@kirbyoctournament

[poorlittleyaoyao]

is jgy different in the books than in the untamed? sorry if u haven’t read them im kind of just assuming u have even tho i haven’t lol but i was wondering if his characterization has any major differences like how wwx in novel vs untamed they sort of sanitize him and take away any culpability and honestly some of his edge. just curious if there’s any major differences in his characterization between the two

I'm not the best person to answer because I've only read the first two volumes of MDZS. Short answer: Yes, he is different, and in fact gets the reverse of WWX's treatment: Drama JGY is more overtly villainous than Novel JGY. However, IMO it's a little more complicated than that!

(Novel enjoyers, please chime in if I'm forgetting or misrepresenting anything.)

A lot of JGY fans greatly prefer the novel and feel that The Untamed did him dirty, because a lot of the show's plot changes that make WWX look better make JGY look worse. Jin Zixuan's death is the most glaring one: in the novel, WWX really does lose control of WN because he overestimates his abilities, and it's a tragic accident. JGY and SMS's implied involvement in the Massacre at Nightless City also doesn't happen in the novel; that, too, was a devastated WWX wreaking havoc and/or losing control. The novel also establishes that JGY is subject to abuse within Jinlintai, so there's an element of duress that one can read into his actions under JGS. Novel NMJ behaves more aggressively towards JGY than he does in the show, so his murder doesn't have the same tinge of malice. (The novel timeline also has JGY and LXC meeting before JGY and NMJ, all during Sunshot, so there's that.) Additionally, the novel tells us that JGY is genuinely a very good leader once he's Chief Cultivator and has implemented policies that have improved the lives of regular people and contributed to political stability. We're also told more about his childhood and his love for his mother, and we learn that his relationship with QS is a tragic love story (he doesn't know they're related until after she's pregnant) rather than something he went through with anyway. So in the novel, he's got a lot of positive things going for him that censorship didn't allow to carry over into the show for fear of having too much moral ambiguity.

HOWEVER!!!

The thing about the novel (and why I don't vibe with it as much) is that it's very much WWX's story, whereas The Untamed spends wayyyyy more time with its supporting cast. You might've noticed that I said the word "told" a lot in the above paragraph, because... well, that's what happens. We're told things about JGY, but we don't see him as much, especially since the novel is focused on the post-timeskip era with the stuff in the past coming through non-linear flashbacks. You don't get to see Meng Yao being Just A Little Guy very much before he becomes the Kitten Thinks About Nothing But Murder All Day meme. Now, you also don't hear dramatic music telegraphing HEY!!! HEY!! VILLAINY IS AFOOT!! HEY!!! every time JGY does literally anything, but you do have everything filtered through WWX's unreliable narrator monologue, and he is out there saying some truly wild shit. (You also get less Xiyao. Like, it's there if you want it to be, but The Untamed really went all-in on that.)

For me, the show works better, because I am a sucker for corruption arcs where you see glimpses of the character before they start the atrocities. Seeing him be Just A Little Guy making the saddest meow meow faces when people were mean to him kept me from totally losing sympathy for/interest in him once things start getting squicky, because I had evidence that he wasn't always like that. Meanwhile, JGY's first big scene in the novel is the confrontation with QS (which already makes my skin crawl and is somehow WORSE in novel form), and I was just like "wow, this guy sucks" even though I knew the story and all the extenuating circumstances already. For others, the novel works better, because "first impressions and society's opinion are unreliable" is a major theme, so the reverse reveal combined with the fact that he demonstrably tries to improve people's lives as a leader is less expected and more satisfying.

So yeah! JGY is different, but the ways in which he is different are due to storytelling methods as well as to plot changes!

[ice-cap-k]

Please go on, I'd love to hear your thoughts about Dominion Shadow 🙏

Fair warning before I get into it, I like my science, biology, physics, etc. and I'm about to loosely apply those two subjects to minecraft, of all things. If you're not a fan of applying any of that sort of stuff to silly block men, consider this fair warning to click off now. I'm about to ramble. Seriously. Turn back now while you still can.

Still here?

Alright.

Law of Conservation of Mass says matter cannot be created or destroyed. Same's true with energy. When something withers like a plant, it's usually because as the cells making up the body die out, they lose moisture and the cellular structure collapses in on itself as the remaining mass is converted into decomposed tissue.

Wither skeletons are already decomposed and exist in the nether where moisture is near non-existent. It would make sense that their desiccated skin would sap moisture from the player at an extreme degree since water moves to the place of least concentration. In a pure vacuum, such as space, moisture leaves at an even faster rate because there are no other atoms in the atmosphere that would bombard the skin and slow that process down. Technically a body out in space could mummify considerably faster than it ever could in the desert on Earth.

Now, I'll admit I jumped on the Dominion train after it had ended, but Shadow his origin is a wither, and he kind of has an association with those void creatures once the blood moon appears. And void is associated with space in minecraft. Loosely. Obviously you can still breath in the End and whatnot, but with the star backdrop and the moonrock texture of the endstone, the parallels are intentional.

Wither as a sapping force, drawing moisture and life essence. Shadow's still alive. Still has a body, unlike a skeleton, so unlike a skeleton with bones that would grow denser as it saps the lifeblood right out of you, so too would Shadow's wither effect, but his is caused by an artificial vacuum created around his person like an aura as his body sucks up the atmosphere and gaseous water around it. And when a person gets close enough, say, close enough to touch, they hit that pocket of vacuum and suddenly they're caught and affected by it like that body in space.

BAM! Instant wither effect.

But like I said, Shadow's still alive. So what he's getting from that person is both their energy, and the mass he's absorbing that's carrying said energy. And as I mentioned in the last post, I picture Shadow as a big-ish guy, if not tall.

That's where gravity can come into play.

Because when something has more mass, it's gravitational force is greater.

People lose moisture, muscle mass, bone density, it's gotta go somewhere, right?

Yeah. Shadow gets it. And he becomes bigger. More moisture running through his veins as sickly black sludge, more muscle mass on his still living body, denser bones capable of handling intense shear and compressive stress, less likely to fracture and break under extreme duress.

It's led me to some really cool headcanons like, if Shadow withers too many people, absorbs too much, he gets bigger. Not, like, tall, but more mass to the point where it might hurt to walk. But also, it makes it easier for things to be drawn to him and his sphere of influence/vacuum larger around him as more air particles within the vicinity are trapped within the draw. And also, it would make it THAT much easier to wither anyone who comes close.

And like I said, I came to the party late, but I did hear that there was rumor of him playing into the Wither Storm concept. So I'd imagine, like a black hole, he could have simply kept growing and growing as his sphere of influence spread, things getting caught in his vacuum's event horizon, people getting hurt just walking by him, until he ultimately became an unstoppable force that was no longer capable of decaying back to the point of stability.

[inkdemonapologist]

wdym by malice's writing being incoherent

NOTHING IN THIS SCENE MAKES SENSE! Malice sweetie i love u but what r u doin

Why does she have an electric chair party. If her goal is to take apart Audrey on the operating table because she’s A Unique Specimen That Will Finally Make Her Perfect why is she exclusively using death methods guaranteed to damage A Lot of the body when she originally had access to a passed out Audrey?? Why does she want to do a riddle? Why is she angry when you solve the riddle? Like she specifically tells you at the start “yeah, I want to take you apart and use your insides as beauty products, but first we’ll do a little riddle and we can do that other stuff later” so why does she say you’ve “humiliated” her later? You didn’t cheat, she didn’t make the puzzle unsolvable, you just literally did exactly the thing she told you to do.

For the record, Malice is also kinda incoherent in BatIM, but her screaming rage as the elevator falls feels more like her Real Feelings Finally Showing after being mockingly sweet to Henry thus far, while in BatDR she hasn’t really been keeping her cards close to the chest or pretending to be helpful, so it just kind of feels like “and then she loses it and starts screaming, because she’s crazy, of course” logic. Why does Malice have a bunch of loyal lost ones who dutifully repeat their riddle clues with zero additions? Like, this is a tangent, but wouldn’t it be creepier if they were obviously under duress when you speak to them? Why is the logic puzzle not bendy or angel themed in any way, like it was lifted out of a Book O’ Logic Puzzles directly and not even reskinned? WHY ARE THERE BUTTONS THEMED FOR IT, set up in wilson’s retreat????????? how often does Malice run this thing? Malice getting Henry to do her chores at least makes a little sense in that he’s doing things she didn’t particularly want to do herself (tho I agree with Mochi’s suggestion that it would’ve felt less arbitrary if it were made very clear afterwards that you had helped her get everything she needed to do her Boris Experiment), but what does she get out of this? If she’s enjoying making people squirm then there’s a distinct lack of squirming going on!!! Girl go back to unethical experiments that you’re in control of, that’s way more effective!! Her hint of a motive – Audrey is unique, the One That Came Out Right, and might be the key to Malice finally getting the perfection she craves – is ACTUALLY REALLY INTERESTING and works well with the story and plays into everything that’s going on with Audrey discovering her past, and for incomprehensible reasons it’s just kind of not really driving Malice’s actions here?

Anyway, this fun but baffling scene aside, the original reason I felt like Malice was sort of oddly written was the note you find from her:

This is actually pretty compelling. Malice has always seemed Vanity Obsessed and to give her a reason that’s not just “i want to be pretty” but “so many doors are closed to me unless I’m gorgeous, so if I could Just Be Beautiful I could have the things I want most!” is a great insight… into a character who is not in Malice’s situation. You could roll with this – framing it as these feelings being left over from when she was human, and she’s not coherent enough now to logically think through the fact that “doors will open for you if you’re gorgeous” no longer applies to her in Ink Hell. But was that ever Susie’s motivation…? She just wanted to Be Alice. And you could so easily get to her Perfection Obsession through that – I really like the repeated “angels are beautiful” because it gets the closest to that idea, that she’s desperate to fix the dysphoria of Not Really Being Alice Angel, the thing she sacrificed everything for, and she’ll sacrifice and sacrifice until she has it again.

So, this all just feels like….. Like, the way Malice IS is great. She’s great. Her delivery is fun and of course we’re all thrilled about “honey”. But her actions don’t make much sense, and the reasoning and motivation we’re given feels less like “here’s what’s really going on in this character’s head, here’s what’s motivating her” and more like “here’s a motivation that could explain why someone wants to be beautiful so bad”. It’s kind of generic rather than growing out of Malice’s particular feelings and history; it’s just to the left – and overall, this whole thing kinda feels like they did their best to create some scenario to replicate Malice’s vibes from BatIM, rather than really trying to understand her character and what this situation would drive her to do. Unlike BatIM (where she just wanted your buddy), in this game she wants YOU, and it’s a shame they didn’t lean into that more!!

[neonthewrite]

Shoot the Breeze

I have another GT July Prompt ready! The next up was "Secret" and I'm not sure why, but I really wanted to return to our little buddy borrower Chase. Takes place directly after Lies Under Duress. Can he actually keep a secret? Let's find out ...

Forbidden Fruit Snacks | Fried Potatoes | Minnie’s Supply Run | Nailed It | Orange You Glad | Almost a Thief | Lies Under Duress

~~~

Chase put a hand over his chest, outwardly mimicking a look of offense. Inwardly, he felt like the motion was necessary to keep his heart from fluttering right out of his ribcage. Even up on the table, even with the human sitting down, he felt so small. He’d been small for so long, but it didn’t hit him quite as hard as when he was forced to compare himself to a human. He hardly believed, in moments like this, that he used to be on the same scale. The disparity had long ago prompted him and Minnie to stop calling themselves human.

They were a world apart now. The living wall before him was proof enough of that.

Against such a foe, Chase’s only weapon was talk. “Sneaking around? You make it sound so, I dunno, nefarious or something. I just wanted an orange, man. You saw how big they are to me, you saying you wouldn’t go for a, a giant orange if you had a shot at one?”

At least the guy was easy to read. His brows knitted in clear bemusement and he even had to fight a smile that tried to come over his face. That meant he wasn’t mad, at least. “Dude, you … you keep avoiding my questions. Why?”

“Well, I don’t wanna answer ‘em,” Chase shot back, for his part letting a grin settle on his face. “If I really wanted to answer a bunch of ‘Oh my god what are you’ and ‘Why do you have my stuff’ questions I’d have let some giant someone catch me sooner.”

He saw on the human’s face that he had given something away. An instant later, the man leaned forward slightly, looking closer at him, appraising something. “So you’ve been doing this a while? Stealing stuff and hiding out right in my apartment?”

Chase shrank back a bit, shoulders inching up to his ears and stomach quivering. “Wh-who said that?” he countered, quieter but trying to keep up his relaxed tone. “You’re making the assumptions anyone would make, that’s all. Not my fault people are predictable. So I tend to avoid … everyone.”

The human’s mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown. Then he leaned back in his chair again. One hand absently drummed at the edge of the table‒Chase felt every tap where he sat‒and the other dragged through his wavy brown hair. “Okay. Okay. We’re off to a weird start, little dude. We can at least agree on that, right?”

Chase’s eyebrows shot up. Did he actually convince the guy of something? “Sure, sure, I mean it’s understandable, right? But I can get out of your way shortly‒”

“Hang on,” the human interrupted, that amusement returning. “You’re not off the hook yet. But I’ll take a step back here. I’m Jacob. Nice to meet you, maybe, if you’ll tell me why you’re sneaking around in my apartment, mister …?”

Chase pursed his lips and didn’t take the bait. “So what’s your secret, Jacob? One of your parents a, what’s it called, a bulldozer? A mountain, maybe?”

Jacob sighed. He was disappointed, but not quite angry, based on the smile that still twitched at the corner of his mouth. Chase was entertaining him, which was probably a good sign. An angry human would be too much to deal with, no matter what few advantages he and Minnie had discovered since shrinking down. Keeping the guy laughing kept Chase out of worse trouble.

The human leaned his chin on his elbow, a casual stance that loomed overhead all the same. “Something like that,” he answered. Chase hadn’t expected him to roll so well with his banter, but it made him like the guy a tiny bit more, despite everything. “Got a long, storied tradition of being mountains in the family. Are you part mouse?”

Chase winced. It was a fair turn. But having his own size pointed out always came with that old sting. “Oh he’s got jokes! Low hanging fruit, dude.”

Jacob shrugged. “You can’t reach anything higher, short stuff, might as well keep things fair, right?”

Chase’s jaw dropped in a stunned grin. “Ha! Okay! You are‒you’re funny, Jacob.” Chase was surprised to find himself really meaning it. In another life, he probably would have been friends with this guy.

“Thanks. I try. But I’m still wondering what you are, little dude. And why you’re really here.”

“Why are any of us here,” Chase shot back, though his following chuckle was a bit more nervous than he wanted. Jacob, still amused, wasn’t budging. He remained looming overhead, calm as could be but putting pressure into the air all the same, and Chase still had no ideas on how to help himself. “I mean. You said it yourself. I’m just. Just a little dude. And I said it myself. I was trying to take an orange. No big secrets there.”

Jacob pondered it, and Chase watched for signs of frustration, or maybe of further amusement on that giant face. The guy had never seemed like the angry type, from what observations Chase had made of him in the past. He might be a reasonable person in most respects. Finding some miniature thief in his home could well test those limits.

“Will you at least tell me a name? I don’t want to just keep calling you ‘little guy’ or whatever else. It’s a little weird.”

“That … is a reasonable ask,” Chase admitted. He also wasn’t sure how long he could stand the nicknames, and Jacob wasn’t demanding anything. What could he possibly glean with just a name? “I’m Chase. And it’s not because I like having things coming after me. So no cat and mouse, Jake.”

That earned a bemused frown, Jacob’s brow knitting and his mouth twisting. “Noted. Don’t think that’d be necessary, seeing as I already caught ya.” He glanced away for a moment, straightening where he sat. “Listen, Chase, I don’t think this talk is over, but I didn’t expect getting a single straight answer would take that much time, and I have some other stuff I need to do today.” His focus returned to Chase and felt like a physical weight. “What are the chances you’ll still be here when I get back?”

“What? If you just leave? Zero, buddy. Are you kidding? Soon as you’re out of sight I’m gonna bounce.” Chase’s heart fluttered again, and he scolded himself inwardly. Would Jacob have believed him if he said he’d wait? Then he could just leave anyway.

“That’s what I thought,” Jacob said, that faint smile returning. His hand approached, prompting Chase to all but leap to his feet again. “C’mere.”

Chase stumbled backwards and came up with a hundred stupid lies, all running rapid fire through his head but none of them sounding like they’d even make Jacob pause and think. He was usually so good at coming up with plans, at getting by just in time.

He was all out of close calls. Jacob’s enormous hand was upon him seconds later, fingers longer than Chase was tall curling behind him, gathering him up in a grip he wouldn’t be able to see out of if Jacob closed his fist entirely. As it was, Chase had a view of the ceiling as he was hoisted all too easily off the table, like he weighed nothing. His few ounces probably didn’t feel like much at all, really. He left the table behind, and the world lurched as Jacob stepped around the furniture towards whatever goal he’d decided on.

“Waitasecond, Jacob,” Chase said, pushing against the palm he was pinned to. “I’m totally ready to talk more. Let’s chat now, about whatever you want. Let’s, what do they say, let’s ‘shoot the breeze’ or whatever.”

Jacob chuckled and it shook his hand with the noise, enough that Chase felt every bit of it. “We’ll shoot the breeze all you want, later. I gotta make an appointment. Won’t be long. You’ll be fine chilling here ‘til I get back.”

Chase, surprisingly, didn’t doubt it. He’d be unharmed, and so far Jacob held him carefully, if securely and almost entirely obscured in a hand. But he’d be trapped. He heard a cabinet open, then close. Then another. Jacob must be looking for something to trap him with.

That sting was back, with the reminder that a simple kitchen tool would be enough to trap him.

His stomach lurched as Jacob turned, maybe towards the kitchen counters. He’d found something. Chase suddenly squirmed, tried to do something to change what was about to happen. He’d been out of his depth since the human came back and found him on the counter. All because he’d wanted to one-up his sister in a made up game that didn’t matter at all now.

He opened his mouth to spout off another protest, some more fast talk to get Jacob to hesitate, keep the human distracted. As he did, the hand lowered again, far too fast and sudden, and the only sound Chase managed was a strangled yelp while his whole body flinched from the falling sensation.

He was set down quickly on the counter top, and there was a shadow looming over him. He threw his hands over his head on instinct. It meant he missed whatever it was settling down on the counter over him, though he felt it hit the surface under his kneeling posture. When he looked up, a metal dome sat over him, pocked with holes in an even pattern all around and letting in dappled light.

 A strainer. It left him in a space the size of a decently sized room. He could even stand up if he wanted and probably not reach the top of the dome if he stretched his arms.

The light changed on one side as Jacob leaned in to peer through the holes. Small, disjointed glimpses of his face loomed just outside of Chase’s prison. “Just … wait in there for a while, okay? I won’t be gone that long.”

Chase huffed and slumped in an obvious pout. “Sure, man, I’ll just. I’ll just make myself comfortable. What the god damn hell, it’s almost cozy.”

Jacob retreated again. When he answered, that smile still colored his voice. “You’ll be okay, Chase. It’s only for a little bit.”

Chase had lost his desire to argue. He was barely sure he’d actually had a whole conversation with a human over at the table, without feeling all that much danger. He certainly felt the danger now, trapped under a strainer until whenever Jacob decided to come home. Chase had felt like he might control the conversation if only he said the right words, but it hadn’t worked. He knelt in the dim lighting and listened as Jacob left the room, and eventually, the apartment itself.

“Damn. That really could have gone better.”

[umabloomer]

If you look at the provenance, a lot of the Palestinian embroidered clothing in the British Museum collection were acquired around 1967-1970s which I think it suspicious... hundreds of thousands of people were displaced after 1967 and probably had to leave behind or sell their belongings which were then purchased by tourists or collectors at markets. Not saying they're stolen (but maybe) but items that would otherwise have been priceless family heirlooms were probably forcibly abandoned or sold under duress.

Also a whole load of Palestinian textiles in the collection were purchased from the "Church Missionary Society" in 1966 (and a few other Christian organizations, some of which appear to be evangelical Zionists or messianic Jews or something) which is suspicious for missionary reasons... where did they get them all?

Why were there so many embroidered thobs available for collectors (and not being worn by people)? What happens when hundreds of thousands of people are forced to leave their homes and everything in them behind and their homes are re-occupied or demolished by people who have no connection to the objects in the homes? Probably a lot of stuff was taken and sold by the occupiers. I'm just surmising, though.

[wrinkledparchment]

the absence of everything (iii)

Summary: Based on 1x22 | 2x1 - After your trip to Vegas was rudely interrupted by a suspicious manila envelope being delivered to your hotel room, you and Spencer have to cut your vacation short to go back to Quantico. Although you and Spencer try to resume your professional relationship after sharing a bed, Spencer realizes just how much you mean to him, and can finally put a name on what he feels, once and for all.

Word Count: 6,030 words

Author’s Note: So... I’ve been gone for so long but this series is probably the main thing I still receive praise for in my notes. I’m currently focusing more on writing for HL but I’ve had this in my drafts forever and I decided to feed you guys!! I hope you like it... upon rereading it, some of my favorite fluffy lines I’ve ever written are in here. How did I manage that. 

Content Warnings: Your general criminal minds ish, death, stuff like that. Some fluff content for you guys!!

Series Taglist:  @liviasaugusta @l0ve-0f-my-life @imsuperawkward @nxstalgicnxbxdy @marciscaspar @april-14-blog @sweetreid @essenceproxima @sammypotato67 @idkanymore-05 @slep-slop @squirrellover1967 @irjuejjsaa @yomama-umbridge @holybatflapexpert @rosignoelle @ladyravenclaw @yours-truly-r @spenciepoo338 @masieofthevalley @throughparisallthroughrome  @afuckingshituniverse   @ladyravenclaw @irjuejjsaa @danandphilfan6​  @yasminwashere​  @mayempress  @kys-things

the abscence of everything: i | ii | . . . 

“It is me. I am his madness. For years he’s been looking for something to put his madness into. And he found me.” – John Fowles, The Collector

. . .

The coffee table in your Vegas hotel room had cluttered manila envelopes, the key and note given to Spencer, and a piece of missing evidence from your father’s murder scene. Rage bubbled in your stomach, so as Spencer called Gideon on the hotel room phone, quickly putting it on speaker, you paced around, unable to stop seeing your dad’s case files and his dead, mutilated body over and over again.

“Gideon, [Name] and I both got a package, I got a key and a note reading ‘She will die unless you save her, Doctor Reid. Call Gideon. He knows.’ She got two binded pieces of paper from a book her father was binding and repairing when he died.”

Gideon finally let out a sigh, “Yeah, I got a Nellie Fox baseball card from 1963 and a head in a box. Everyone on the team got something, but Elle was hit hard. She was framed for murder in Montego Bay, Hotch and Morgan went down to get her released and bring her back to Quantico.”

You walked closer to the phone and stopped chewing on your nails, rage bubbling inside your chest. “Gideon, whoever the hell this was had access to missing evidence from my father’s murder investigation. Meaning, this son of a bitch is the guy who robbed and killed my father. This is personal.”

“Don’t worry, [Name]. We’re going to find him. Get on the closest flight back here and Garcia will tell you where we are, we’re going to get this guy as soon as we can.” Right after he finished, Gideon hung up, leaving you and Spencer to race to get to the airport in time.

You left your rental car at the airport kiosk, signing it out and rushing after Spencer to get on the flight back home. It was all a blur, blended together to create your perfect disaster. You were stressed, overworked, and ill-prepared. This was the case you’d joined for—to find your father’s murderer and lock the bastard up.

You’d searched and searched and searched, and the criminal found you. Just as you’d eased out of work mode, just as something besides work and murder and blood filled your mind, he stole you away. Because of course he did. Because he was looking.

Spencer was a mess, but not for the same reason. You were obviously under duress, but you were so scattered that he felt like he couldn’t do anything. He did his best, carrying your bags for you, getting you iced chai while waiting for boarding. When you did get on the plane, he immediately lifted the armrest between you back, and pulling out Dante’ Inferno, handing his leather-bound copy over to you.

Your fingers ran over the spine of the book, feeling the indents where the title was, the smooth texture everywhere else. Fine craftsmanship, it must’ve been from a passionate, talented individual bookstore owner with a knowledge of binding. It reminded you of yourself, the care and attention devoted in the craft.

“You’ve got a fine copy here, Spence,” you smiled, as much as you could. “My dad would’ve loved it.”

“Do you think you can still bind books well?” he asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

“I’ll never forget.”

He nodded, smiling something bittersweet, “We’ll find your dad’s old book. And you’re going to fix it.” You smiled again, a little more genuine, and flicked open Spencer’s copy of Dante’s Inferno.

“I’ve got supplies in a closet somewhere,” you recalled, voice soft and quiet in case it suddenly broke. You didn’t want to cry, and you shouldn’t, not here, but it was becoming harder to not be vulnerable with Spencer. “I dream about him every night.”

Reid nods, moving his hand to rest on your knee, moving his thumb gently, allowing you to continue. “I’ve been waiting for a lead, since before I was even in the FBI academy. I’ve been waiting for 8 years and now that I’ve finally got it… just when I was happy, too.” You pause for a minute, letting one tear roll down your face but holding the rest in. “I see his body everywhere I go, can’t stop remembering how the blood felt on my hands, how lifeless he looked. I miss him, even after all this time, and now that I’ve finally got a chance to figure out who did it, I don’t want to.”

Spencer pulled you closer, looking out the small window to see the bright blue sky and all the clouds. Your breathing was still erratic, your heart still broken. And he hated how in the moment you needed him most, he couldn’t figure out what to say. “I’m here,” he murmured, over and over again until he was sure you knew what he meant.

. . .

Even though Garcia’s explanation was rushed, you vaguely understood what was happening. She refused to look you in the eye, too, possibly because Gideon had told the team about what you’d found and how it was connected to you personally. It didn’t matter though, because you’d just pulled up to a possible unsub’s apartment.

The alleyway in which all the cars were parked was also crowded by other FBI members, all unguarded, meaning the unsub wasn’t there. The local police, and an extra car were also there, you assumed some sort of medical examiner, and there was probably a body.

You and Reid were authorized to enter after flashing your badges, and neither of you were asked to put on vests. Walking in, the both of you grabbed gloves, Spencer just holding them while you slid them on and followed him over to the crime scene.

It wasn’t overly graphic, compared to other things you’ve seen, but it was traditional to become emotionally numb in the job. No matter what, someone had died here, an ‘unrepentant bad man’ or not. The bed, and with it, the man named Frank Giles, was lying in the center of the room, a sword plunged into his chest and sticking upright.

Elle, Hotch, Morgan and Gideon all stood in the room, Hotch reading something written on the sword out loud to the rest of the team. “To learn of what should next be done, leave the blade til’ the hour be none.”

Spencer stepped closer, watching as Hotch asked Elle to step back. “The bed’s in the middle of the room,” Hotch began, Morgan interrupting for a second, “And maybe the light from here casts a shadow and points to something.”

Derek quickly began explaining his theory, “Well midnight is 00:00 hours in 24-hour time. Would that be none?” Hotch dismissed this quickly, stating that there would be no shadow at midnight, until Reid finally spoke up.

“3pm.” Everyone turned to him first, then you, then back to him. Obviously, Gideon did tell everyone that this was connected to your father’s death. And surprisingly, you looked very calm for someone about to embark on their quite literal personal case, the one you’d joined for. “Hey guys, Garcia told us where to find you.”

Hotch nodded at you, barely acknowledging how personal of a situation this was for you, but quickly dismissed it, listening to Spencer talk about medieval terms for hours of the day, then asking for lighting equipment so he could replicate the 3pm sun.

While people walked in and out with various standing lights, Gideon finally walked up to you. You turned to him, offering a quick nod and smile before quickly dropping it when he mentioned your dad. “You know you can’t let your past affect this case,” he states, and you nod. “It’s obviously personal, and I know this person is targeting you, but you can’t allow yourself to make mistakes because of your past with the unsub.”

Sighing, you agreed with Gideon, instead moving next to the shadow as Reid adjusted it, and you knocked on the wall until you heard a hollow sound, ripping away the wallpaper without need for Hotch’s command. Underneath all the wallpaper was a box, and you immediately grabbed it.

Reid stopped you, “Are we sure it’s safe?”

Hotch quickly dismissed him and allowed you to examine it. You played with the lock for only a few seconds before looking back up at Reid. “Give me the key.” Without hesitation, he handed it over and you shoved it in, and to nobody’s surprise, it fit perfectly. You lifted the lid, and familiar music had began to play, one that Reid had played for you during the classical music quiz.

“Forellenquintett,” you and Reid murmured in unison, the rest of the team looking up at each other before shrugging it off. Reid reached inside to grab the note from the music box, reading it out loud to the rest of the team.

Never would it be night, but always clear day to any man’s sight.

Elle scoffed, walking off, “Well, that was worth it.”

Gideon ignored her, speaking right afterwards. “The lid. Little tab right under the lock.”

You quickly fiddled with it, revealing a CD and a lock of hair that nearly perfectly matched yours. You hummed under your breath in disapproval and disgust, Derek and Elle working together to put the lock of hair in an evidence back and grab the CD for review.

After heading back to the table room, you and Reid sat next to each other, which was your usual spot. For some reason the team seemed to eye the both of you, suspicious about what had happened in Vegas and why you two were still together when you should’ve left before that.

You carefully watched the TV after someone slid in the CD. A dimly lit desk with cluttered items all around it, and a very large throne behind it. A man wobbled into frame, clearly injured by something, which the team noted.

“I assure you, you’ll all understand in the end why it must be this way. You might even thank me. You know now you’re on a quest; a young girl’s life depends on the successful completion of it. As you can see, she’s quite beautiful . . . and in distress.”

You clenched your fists when you saw the girl come into frame, screaming at the camera, begging for something. You wondered if everyone on the team recognized just how much, even from the little they all saw, how she looked like you.

“Now please listen closely for there is one rule, and this rule must be followed. The one rule is only the members of your team may participate in the quest.” He began to list your names, and displayed pictures of each of you in the video, you and Reid in the same frame taken during one of the previous cases. “A quest must be completed in a proper way, or it isn’t a quest, is it? That’s it. One rule. Simple.

“Now, you will be receiving an item soon that will hold the final clue you’ll need to finish the quest. You will find you also need a book which has inspired many an adventure like mine. Believe me when I tell you, I truly hope to see you all soon. It will mean a successful end to this adventure for all of us, but especially [Name].”

With that, the clip was over and all that was left was static. Reid had tensed after he’d mentioned you by name, and it didn’t fly over the heads of any of your coworkers either. The unsub knows you so well, doesn’t he? Pictures of you and Reid together, knowledge of just how to tick you off, and additionally, he knows what happened to your father the last night he was alive and is plunging that knife of knowledge right into your heart and twisting it. Involving all your coworkers in it, making it clear that all of this, it’s all for you.

You were the subject of madness, the main target of all of this. You were the ‘protagonist’, he was the villain, and everyone else—the dead, your coworkers, the girl he’d kidnapped—were all side characters in the story. But Reid, standing right next to you in the picture while everyone else was photographed individually, that said something to you. He knew about whatever was happening between the two of you, so much so that it was terrifying because he probably knew better than either of you.

Suddenly, the team was active. “This guy’s got pictures of us?” Elle exclaims.

Reid fiddled with the pen in his hand, “What do we do now?”

Hotch eyed you, noting how tense you seemed when only just minutes ago, even with a dead body in front of you, you were eerily calm. “The lock of hair’s being analyzed for DNA. There might be something on file.” JJ walked out, vowing to figure out who the girl is. Hotch nodded, “Let’s get the clues up on the board. Maybe we can make some sense of something.”

Elle immediately objected, “Wait, we’re going to play this guy’s game?”

Reid sighed, glancing at you for a few moments, “Do we have a choice?”

Everybody stayed silent, Spencer’s words lingering in the air while Gideon and Hotch went to a different room. You began quietly pinning the clues in the evidence bags to the board, not saying a single word to anybody else in the room. Elle found the soft crumple of the evidence bags relaxing, eyes closing softly until Hotch interrupted her nap and sent Anderson to take her home.

Soon enough, yet another piece of evidence, a list of number sets in a strict pattern, though it may not seem like it without a keen eye. Just as Spencer opened his mouth, you beat him to the punch. “Sets of numbers, page number, line number, word number. It’s a cipher based on a book which he expects us to know.”

Derek stares back at you, Spencer’s mouth opening and closing like a fish. Sure, you were quicker sometimes than he was, but you seemed so rigid, it was odd to them. “Yeah but what book?”

“Well, this ‘quest’ is clearly meant to be personal to you, [Name],” Derek proposed, “Meaning this is a book he expects you to know.” Spencer sighed, walking over to grab the ripped pages the unsub had sent you and examines them, reading the words hoping he’d remember reading this book at some point but he doesn’t.

“Dante’s Inferno?” Reid questioned, even though he obviously knew it wasn’t.

“Both of us would recognize it. Whatever book my dad was fixing that night, it was that book. Specifically, a first edition. Let’s see… that was eight years ago. Do you think memory recall would work?”

Elle and Derek simply stood off to the side while you and Reid debated each other, glancing at each other occasionally. Yet, the body language was the same as it always was, and maybe what had changed was the way Elle and Derek read the situation.

“When you got there, the book was gone; how would you know which one he was supposed to be working on?” Spencer rebutted.

“I was closing, I must’ve—” you stammered, “I must’ve known what book he was working on, I have to!” Soon, you were pacing around the room, muttering things underneath your breath and attempting to retrace your steps from 8 years ago that also occurred across the country.

Derek set his hands on your shoulders, holding you in place and stopping your pacing. “Okay, [Name], calm down, we can always try memory recall, and if not, the clues should be in the evidence—this guy is meticulous, I’m sure he’s accounted for this.”

Suddenly, Gideon walked back into the room, looking at the four of you. Spencer was still staring at the evidence board, Hotch leaning back in his chair, and Derek and you standing in the middle of the room. “[Name], you don’t have to relive that memory if it’s not necessary. How would we proceed if we didn’t have all these clues? What’s the first thing we’d look at?”

“Victimology,” you swallowed, both thankful and displeased that Gideon was looking out for your wellbeing. Everybody was watching you so closely, especially because this was a personal case to you, as if they expected you to break down at any moment.

“And we have a victim, Rebecca Bryant. Hotch and I will follow the mailman lead. Derek, take JJ and find out everything you can about Rebecca. Reid, [Name], stay here and find the book. If anybody can do it, it’s you two.”

Everyone else left the room, Reid and you staying. Sure, Gideon didn’t want you to relive the worst moments of your entire life, but you were so close. So you shut the door to the roundtable room and turned back to Reid. “I want to do memory recall.”

. . .

The chair you were sitting on was soft and sturdy, so you let yourself lean back, and you closed your eyes. You breathed, waiting for Reid to begin. You tried to calm yourself, enough to the point where your anger flooded away and all you could do was think. See your memories in a clear light.

“I’m going to try and calm down first, can you guide me?”

Spencer nodded, breathing along with you. “What is your favorite memory?”

You focused in on the word, smiling; favorite. You could hear Spencer’s giddy laugh echoing in your ears, bright city lights clouding your vision. The hood of your black rental car from Vegas reflected them, the smaller model of the Eiffel tower standing tall, neon signs and main strip casino windows. The cool, night breeze in your hair. You could still feel Reid’s lingering presence in the passenger’s seat, the way he looked at you with those doe-y, hazel eyes. His pupils were inflated, shrinking again when he turned away to change the stereo.

You could feel the pain in your toe when you stubbed it on the hotel bedframe, you could feel the newly replaced bedsheets of the hotel against your legs, and you could see Spencer standing over you, smiling so widely when you laughed. The way his warm skin felt against yours, how gentle he was with his arms around you.

You imagined the pool water as he splashed it back at you, the water droplets against his skin and the way he slicked back his wet hair. His laugh and shy smile after you told him he still looked like a rat when he was wet. The understanding look when he listened to your struggles with the BAU, your life story, the interest in your past and your hobbies.

After all the memories you’d made yesterday had flashed through your head in a matter of seconds, you registered what it meant. When you thought of happy, you thought of him. Some of your favorite moments in life were with him, being around him, watching him. Him, him, him. This feeling—it was consuming you, and it felt so delightful. You wanted it to devour you, and you let it.

“Yesterday,” you whispered after a minute of reliving the best day of your life. You didn’t open your eyes, but you could hear Reid shift in his chair and you smiled, assuming he was blushing. Profiler or not, he knew what that meant.

He sighed, “Are you ready to go back?” You nodded. “It was eight years ago. How old were you?”

“I was sixteen, and about to graduate high school.” You still remember how frustrated and overwhelmed you were. The night before you discovered your dad, you had the closing shift along with a massive pile of homework and colleges to apply to. You sat behind the wooden counter, combing through your homework as fast as you could, eager for your father to come and take an overnight shift in working with the books.

“What time was it?”

“It was five minutes until the clock struck 11,” you said, which was the beginning of your father’s shift at the bookstore. You were packing up your homework and college applications back into your bookbag, noting on a stray piece of paper all the leftover homework and applications you had to pour over in the morning. You were so tired, but you wanted to thank your father for taking the shift tonight and letting you rest.

“My father is coming in,” you tell Spencer, reliving the last moment you saw him alive. The door rang, signaling his entrance. His hair and shoulders were wet from the rain outside, something you didn’t remember about the scene until now. He smiled, asking you how your day went.

“Okay, sweetpea,” he had begun, “are you ready to go home?” You nodded to him, but not before helping him with his bags. He looked at you, smiling while you followed him down to the book storage, an icy cold basement.

You watched, setting out his materials for him while he brought out the book, which was partially bound but tattered still, especially the cover, and you had to take a double take, pausing and hearing Reid’s voice. You weren’t listening, but rather going through the evidence in your head.

JJ’s butterfly, Reid’s key, and a lock of hair all on top of a piece of bloodied parchment. You could see the dainty, cursive letters, shocked as to how you’d not remember the cover when you worked at a bookstore. You gasped, nearly crying as you remembered the last thing you’d seen your father doing alive.

You tried to shake it all out of your head, the unsub wanted to get to you. This quest was curated for you and him, a chess game, and you needed to have a level head to win. Sitting straight up, your eyes shot open and you and Reid shared a glance, him smiling proudly. You handled yourself so well.

“The Collector, by John Fawkes,” you stated, rushing over to the board where all the evidence was pinned. You took off the butterfly, the lock of hair, the key and the bloodied paper and set them in front of Reid.

“These are all on the first edition front cover, a bloodied piece of paper as a background, the key, the lock of hair and the butterfly all on top. Not only do they have a personal significance to us, but to the book. I should’ve known sooner,” you berated yourself, explaining quickly before walking off, ready to call the nearest library for their first edition copy of The Collector.

. . .

Reid, Garcia, and you had all stood around, them solving the cipher and writing the message on the board. Elle had been sent home earlier, so you were a team member short, but you were closer than you’d ever been on solving your dad’s murder. So close you could almost imagine him, smiling down at you and telling you that you were doing a good job. That’s all the encouragement you needed.

Hotch had berated Anderson for only dropping Elle off rather than staying at her house, stating that the unsub had all of your personal information. You begged Hotch to let you go to her house and stay, but he said he had needed you too much because of your connection to the case.

Instead, you watched as Reid and Garcia went over the cipher with the librarian. You walked away from the team when Hotch called you. “Yes sir?”

“Elle was shot at her house, I’m at the hospital now, I need you and Reid to keep working on those clues. I’ll update you when she’s out of surgery.”

Your stomach twisted, wondering why in all hell the unsub took Elle. This was your quest, the team were all there to aid you. Why would he hurt Elle instead of you? Instead of your family or someone you were close to? You nearly cried out as you broke into tears—this team, the BAU, is your family. And you’ve brought all of them into danger just by being here.

When you walked back into the room, you’d discovered that Reid had called his mom to be flown into Quantico by the federal agents there, and that you’d be meeting his mom for the first time. She was involved in this case now too, and you wondered if you should stick around after this. If all of this, if Elle’s shooting was your fault.

. . .

You leaned against Reid’s desk as he fiddled with the evidence bag that the poem was in. “Your mom’s safe,” you said, “agents just picked her up and she’s flying over here now. Garcia told me.”

Reid didn’t even dare to meet your gaze, staring at the poem still. “I forgot she always used to read me this poem,” he started. “And I realized that nobody knows things like the fact that JJ collects butterflies except for me. People tell me their secrets all the time, and I think it’s because they know I don’t have anyone to betray them to… except for my mother. I tell her pretty much everything in my letters. Did you know that I write her everyday?”

You smiled, leaning forward, “I did, Reid. And I know that you feel guilty about not seeing her two days ago. That you write all of those letters to make up for the fact that you think you don’t visit her enough.”

He looked up at you, a clear question in his eyes. How do you know?

“Reid, during my memory recall, when you asked what my favorite memory was… I’ve been alive for twenty-four years, and out of any memory—the ones with my best friend, the good days here, my childhood—I chose Las Vegas. Not because of the beautiful city lights, or the fancy car, but because you were there with me, just us.

“I told you about my father not because you don’t have anyone to betray me to, but because I want you to know. Because I trust you whole-heartedly, and if anybody in this world should know me best, it’s you.”

Spencer finally held his eye contact with you, swallowing hard. You let your words hang in the air before putting your hand on his shoulder and squeezing, allowing it to linger there for a few seconds before walking back to Garcia’s lair, wanting to soak up all the information she might have. 

You heard the signature ‘beep’ of Garcia hanging up on someone, and shut her door gently before striding over to her desk. “What’s going on so far?”

She didn’t lift up her eyes to look at you, typing furiously on her computer, “I’m searching for Rebecca Bryant’s biological family, turns out she was adopted by the Bryant family and her real last name is Garner.”

Penelope filled you in further on the details, actively working to unseal her adoption papers and find out what happened to the original family; after all, the victimology is the first thing you look at. 

Could you consider yourself a victim? He’d been taunting and tormenting you and your entire team, he was most likely the man who had killed your father, or at least knew what happened or was involved somehow. Your father had been murdered prior to Rebecca’s disappearance, and you considered why this man would have been involved with your father’s murder and Rebecca’s disappearance. 

Were you actually a target?

You went to sit back at your desk, looking at your old piece of parchment paper with your favorite canto of Dante’s Inferno written in cursive, the fifth, the canto of Francesca. The most famous line written in bold and in the original Italian, “Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona,” or “Love, that excempts no beloved from loving in return.”

The bullpen was a shuffle of people, other agents you didn’t interact with that much, that didn’t come with you on cases, and tons of other people rushing around, going through files, making phone calls. Spencer strided over from the small kitchenette to sit at his desk, which was connected to yours, sitting across from you with a small wall of transparent glass in between. 

He smiled at you, a warm, small smile that frequently was exchanged between the two of you. Sometime in between your talk at his desk and the hour or so you went without seeing each other, there was a microscopic layer of tension between you, beginning right where your desks separated. 

The shuffling of the bullpen dulled the ache of the tension, and so did your eyes slowly closing to rest for just a few minutes as Reid spent his time half-dozing off while reading a printed out version of The Collector. Reid finally broke this silence when your head began to tilt to the side as you fell into a tiny cat nap. He called for you, with no response, so he got out of his chair and poked you in the forearm. 

You wiggled a bit in your sleep, shifting around trying to find some semblance of comfort in your uncomfortable office chair. He takes a moment to stare just for a bit at your face. Looking at your eyes gently closed, your face peaceful even in this painful position, his mind fogged with the soft midnight laughter you traded with each other in the Vegas hotel room. He imagined the weight of your head on his chest, your arm laid over his stomach, your face and warm breath against the crook of his neck. 

He realized quickly the words that came along with the happy memories made along with you. The constricting yet freeing feeling stuck in his throat and squeezed around his heart, the sort of euphoria you associate with the warm feeling of sun on your skin and driving a convertible along the coast. That beautiful, powerful, devouring feeling of knowing that someone has you. You’re theirs, completely and utterly. 

The feeling of pure joy when you stop daydreaming and start remembering memories instead. When the words to describe this feeling escape you because all you can think about is that one, special person who has altered the course of your life forever. When you can no longer write romance because none of the words you put onto a page can do this feeling--this love--justice. 

He was in love with you. He felt it in everywhere he looked, everything he did, and every moment he lived. 

Spencer took a quick look around the office, and gently prodded at your sleeping form again until you open your eyes just a little, squinting against the bright lights of the bullpen. He held out his hand, which you, in your sleepy, half-awake state, took with no hesitation as he guided you into the conference room and turned off most of the lights. 

He showed you to the couch, sitting on the far end, leaving you room to lay down and take the rest of it while the two of you rested and waited for Spencer’s mother to arrive. The crown of your head was just barely touching the side of his thigh, and eventually, moving and wiggling around in your sleep made you lay your head straight in his lap. 

He felt the sudden movement and then the weight, and stared down at your side profile, admiring the way the dim lights highlighted your face perfectly. He brushed hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ear, and he swear he saw a ghost of a smile on your face. He fell asleep, fingers still intertwined and resting in your hair. 

Spencer dreamt of city lights and midnight laughter and Vegas hotel rooms. He dreamt of walking up behind you while you made pancakes in the morning and piling kisses all along the side of your neck and face, arms wrapped around your waist and the way your body would be decorated in stripes by the morning sun. 

He was woken up by the distribution of weight changing, your head shifting to stare up at him, hair surrounding your face in a pile on his lap. The sleepy smile that graces your face twists his stomach into knots and melts his heart. 

You seem to not mind the fact that your head had wound up in his lap, and instead, you muttered a small, sleepy, single word. “Coffee?”

He almost laughed, just stunned by how natural the domesticity and comfortability between you two felt. Like the wall that had built between you--separating your pinkies from intertwining, separating your fates from inexplicably linking--had suddenly vanished. There was a mutual understanding there--you make me feel safe, you make me happy, you are mine.

He slid out from underneath your head, turning around just before he reached the exit to look at you, splayed across the couch comfortably, the dim 5:00 am moonlight gleaming through the windows, and your eyes, shining even brighter back at him with a giant smile on your face. 

In the small kitchenette, he tidies himself up as much as possible, fussing with his hair while coffee brewed, and just as he finished pouring the both of you a cup, a group of FBI agents gathered around the entrance with a blonde, tall and pale woman that was Spencer’s mother. 

“That’s why you’re so skinny, you know,” Spencer’s mother, Diana Reid stated only a few seconds after walking into the bullpen. Spencer turned his head, setting down the pot of coffee. His mother’s eyes were sunken just a bit, dark circles underneath, worry lines accenting her face. “Too much coffee.”

Her frame was cramped up, shoulders tightened and her body looking even more frail by the minute. Her short pixie cut looked untamed, and Spencer wondered how stressed she had been. He knows that she hates planes, and the government, and basically anything else where somebody might be watching her. 

Schizophrenia tends to do that to a person. Even the smartest people get unlucky, get ill in a time where there isn’t much help or refuse it themselves. Spencer lives every day wondering about his mother’s happiness and well-being, but knows she is taken care of in her facility. He writes her everyday, and thinks about his childhood memories, about his father and mother and how he wanted a relationship that was nearly the opposite of that. 

They loved each other at one point. Enough to have him and raise him together for a few years, and all he can think about is how much he would love and cherish his wife, his children with her, and how no matter what got in the way, he couldn’t see himself ever letting go.

All these thoughts, worry for his mother, himself, his future, his children float through his head and pass by in a few seconds. The next few seconds consist of you, whether his mother would approve of you and just how much she might adore you for seeing you make her son so happy.

Finally coming back to reality, he nodded at the FBI agents who had brought her here. “Thanks a lot guys, I’ve got her.” Walking forward, he looks at the horrified look on his mother’s face, eyebrows raised and hand coming to cover her mouth, glancing around the FBI bullpen, clearly unnerved by where she was.

Once the FBI agents have disappeared around the corner of the hallway into the bullpen and Spencer takes a few more steps towards her, she lets her hand drop from her face. “You know I’m terrified of flying,” she states, shaking her head for emphasis. 

Spencer gives a small, fake smile. “I know mom, I’m sorry.”

Spencer glances over his mom’s shoulder, seeing you come out of the roundtable room and begin walking over to where he and his mom were standing. Still obviously upset, his mom continues, “Well then why did you have those fascists arrest me?”

He can hear your footsteps echoing throughout the mostly quiet bullpen, and he tries to calm his mom down before you arrive here, to introduce yourself. 

[cherubchoirs]

Thinking about it...

The humans in ultrakill wouldn't have had a personal home microwave, or at least in the way that we know it because that was invented in the 1950s to humanely heat hamsters.

They probably wouldn't even have had industrial microwaves used in large commerical kitchens, since the food-heating properties of microwaves wasn't realised until the 1940s, somewhere around the end of WW2, by someone who was working on one of the brand new military radars (and dealing with unshielded microwaves) when he realised a food bar he had in his back pocket was melted.

I highly doubt when you're in the middle of a bloody and horrid war, that when you're working on an unshielded radar dish and you realise that your snack has melted, you will stop the work you're doing and go run off and make a microwave oven.

Or maybe you would, idk, it's 5am and I'm tired but not enough to sleep.

NO IT'S AN INTERESTING POINT!! i love thinking about the alternative history here, how different technology is and what humans must have prioritized in comparison to us. like i mentioned, i almost wonder if their industrial revolution was based around automatons and how, since ww1, they never had any peace time to repurpose many of the things developed for the war. plus, they're living under constant duress and so i doubt they had many luxuries or conveniences. every now and then it could be that technology trickled through to the public sector (whatever that looked like throughout the war) and was worked into home life, but it's likely, especially later into the war, that most people were bound up with it. i would think medical technology went a pretty long way, to help preserve people's ability to work (my idea of v1's creators includes a lot of protective gear and advanced gas/o2 masks, considering their environment), but it's all skewed toward a destroyed earth....and for less savory applications (i mean. the gutterman's fuel source is pretty incredible despite how macabre it is) but on the flipside is stuff like this!!! did they have microwaves?? tvs???? what did their entertainment look like, and did it stop being produced at some point??? were there personal computers?? likely there was great communication devices like cell phones, but was there internet available to the public??? it really makes you wonder what their lives looked like and how consumed they were with war

[licially]

Interlude #1

//Hey y'all, I never normally post stuff on here but that is because I've been stressed to death between project works, writer's block and general burnout for the last week. //I managed to push this out but I have been taking a break since then. This goes out to @blogplutocrat, and my second real attempt at angst with a theme? I'm not sure what to make of it but I will keep practicing.

It hasn’t been unusually quiet within the household, yet today stands a contradiction. The busy streets outside of the complex proved a superstition, but the quietness that surrounded the place made it all the more mysterious what this superstition was supposed to be. The tenants of the apartment that was decrepit enough to house those financially unfortunate enough were silent. Not a slight footstep, not a shuffle and not a word from the walls. The hallways replied to the silence with the same, until a door creaked open from the bottom floor. The disruption of what seemed a peaceful silence reverberated back to the person, who gave a deep sigh as they shut the door slightly behind them. They didn’t seem to mind it, as if they were also basked in it. Slowly, they trailed towards the staircase that stood towards the side without longer hesitation. The climb was made difficult with the heels that they wore, and the reach to the second floor was relieved by the contact of the floor.

The footsteps did stop, merely for a moment as they caught up on their breath under what window of time and place they had. Their hair, a low cut that didn’t expand past their head, swirled the air surrounding them. It also partially revealed a dress that they wore, as she sighed one more time. Through the vague lighting that sporadically bounced through the hallways and emptiness of the rooms, she waltzed through the darkness. It was eerie, not only because of the lack of life but what was present didn’t want to make itself known. She kept at it, her steps brought more authority and rule over a place that was chaos crossed with introspection. 

Quiet thoughts also lingered as she filtered the insanity within: What place is this, and why does it feel like an infinity unexplained? Where was she going, and where is the room she was looking for? How did she end up here, and not back at the apartment that she previously entered? She pondered, as she stopped to catch her breath and what little sanity she had left. Her questions still stood untested, and she still kept going at both. The questions only brought answers, and more questions that arose. She was distressed, under stress and everything she did was under duress.

Eventually, she found the number of the room that belonged to both her and her significant other. The door, engraved with a golden plaque that read out the number ‘4514’, which is also supported by the glow that emanated from the borders. She swiped at the door handle, and out she went towards her apartment, in the sunlight that brought color back to the empty void that was outside.

The entrance was short and narrow, with the walkway immediately going towards the living area that served both as a dining place and a kitchen place. The space expanded to a singular window, sat towards the streets below and faced a multitude of buildings across a tiny section of St. Louis’ metropolitan area. Towards the left, a bathroom that tucked itself away with cracks slightly forming at the sink and above towards the roof. The right handside was a bedroom that she and her boyfriend shared endearingly. Although it didn’t seem like much, she called this place her home, and even decorated it with various things. A tiny chandelier that lit up the space between the windows and the living space, which had a rug and several comfortable chairs that stood around a circle. It also included instruments, strawn over the place.

However, she wasn’t quite sure that this place was home. Considering where she was mere moments ago, she had every right to be paranoid that this place was another nightmare or something entirely fabricated. After taking off her heels onto a nearby shoe rack, she checked outside once again to see if the void still existed out there. Outside, the apartment felt normal again. She heard chatter and shuffling coming from all parts of the building; from down the hall, two people were going on about the recent murder spree by someone, another person walked out from a door just closer towards the end of the hallway that took one quick glance around them before they were gone and the hallway was lit up by the windows that she did not see as she came home. 

Weird. She swore she could have been going through this space without any lights to help her, and no one to help her. She didn’t want to sound like a lunatic going around, so she wanted to figure out the answer on her own. As she closed the door and went back inside, the previous ‘how’ and ‘why’ questions had a different name under it: “Why did everything disappear, and why did everything seem so… normal?” she uttered aloud, going through towards the windowsill, as she looked outside and letting the sunlight hit her. It’s here her eyes pondered through the streets and her mind subconsciously dwelled on the questions.

Through the cars and stars that she can and can’t see, she was searching for an answer: Why did she go through the impossible apartment? She paced around the room, trying to sort out herself as she was just outside in the heat, clasping a briefcase with a great deal of care and a suit. Throughout her journey through the household, she held herself on a high after that entire encounter. The soft steps turned softer, her hair became more undone, and her moody attitude seemed to seep into what she was wanting to do.

“What even was that- I don’t get it!” She frustratingly thought out loud, her head and body swaying through the complex to do maintenance: sweeping the household, preparing food from the fridge to cook for her and him for tonight. Since he hadn’t been home at all, she thought ahead and prepared one of their favorite meals together: a simple spaghetti carbonara, with bacon pieces and a sauce she had also prepared the night before. Although it wasn’t everyday she cooked like this, it’s… much better than his monstrosities.

Like ‘pancakes with bacon and eggs on top, with syrup drizzled all over it’ type of monstrosity.

She stopped by now, and planned to do more to the place to make it look pretty. Two sharp knocks came from the front door, unexpectedly so. Lola put everything aside, and yelled out a “coming!” before slowly making her way towards it. Unusual, since she hadn’t had anyone made plans with her, let alone have them come over to this dingy apartment. To have someone knock is either someone from across the hall, or it was Rocky, which shouldn’t be home until about 7PM. Regardless, she wouldn’t dare answer if it weren’t for the peephole that came with the door. She peeked through, and she was surprised.

Rocky stood there, albeit more steady than ever, and his head was covered by a hat that made him look like anyone else. Lola stood for a moment, before proclaiming to him that this wasn’t like him at all.

“Rocky! You can’t scare me with that!” She teased him, trying to get anything out of the guy.

Nothing.

“Rocky?” She lowered her sarcastic tone, this time a concern spread across her face.

Again, Rocky stood absolutely still, without any noise and movement. 

Confused, she clasped the door handle and swung it open. There he still was, standing still with a coat and a hat that still covered his face up towards his mouth. She staggered, not used to seeing him in this sort of quietness before. Carefully, she catered to him and managed to walk him inside the house. He, reluctantly, staggered through the front door and down through towards the open space. Until now, she hadn’t noticed anything wrong with him, maybe the job at hand was a bit too much and he had gone home. But she took another look at her hand and realized the crimson it held. It bled into her viewpoint, and she watched as Rocky took one more step before collapsing onto the floor, the bloody footprints and the impact he made on the floor suddenly shook her subconscious into question, as she paced towards Rocky and grabbed hold of him, whose face is now shown to her.

Her strength was close to being diminished, her eyes’ tears flooded a river and her mouth couldn’t utter any other words. Silence was her only friend as she tugged on him again. For the first time, his smile left him behind. His body felt colder and colder to touch, what he had to say soon also followed the plunge. His head slowly slumped backwards, and Lola felt that everything halted. His eyes were bloodshot, almost too much that she didn’t even recognize it. His face had blood pouring out of his forehead, a cut made by something extremely sharp. His face scrambled every word that fell out of his mouth, as he weakly addressed the lady of the household. 

“Lola- Ms Deluca!...” He coughed out, words mixed with spit and blood. “I’m– sorry…”

“What happened–?!” Lola reprised, her eyes searching up and down for any other wounds that left him in this state.

“I… was a little carr-ied away!” He flinched slightly, still jovially despite his life threatening situation.

“Carried away?! Rocky, you could have died!” She put her eyes away from him, and left to find a first aid kit that finally came in handy thanks to Rocky’s profession. She wrapped his head in the bandage, and sat him up on a nearby chair. Her worries were far from over, however, as she stood next to him to try and find an answer to why and how… he was like this.

“I.. am sorry.” He bore a frown, his eyes seemed to also disconnect from Lola. 

“Rocky, you do so much for so little!” Lola angrily told him, her eyes watering because of the shock from that entire experience. “Please, have some thoughts about some danger that you’re putting yourself through! For goodness’ sake, I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t here!” 

Soon, an uncomfortable silence took up the room, with Rocky dumbfounded and Lola left overwhelmed by how Rocky acted outside in his job. The silence, briefly sliced by the mid afternoon commune and murmurs that echoed through the walls and throughout the entire afternoon towards the night time, they didn’t speak to each other. Not even through the meal that she had planned for the both of them, not even through the countless chores and homework they do together. Nothing got them talking to each other, yet the silence persisted.

Soon, as he finally got rid of his temporary headband, he was back at the entrance again. Lola narrowed her eyes, and pondered if she could have been too protective of him. Sure, he’d have days where he’d be like this 90% of the time, but it all seemed without care. Like an honest mistake. She didn’t seem to know how much trouble this man would go through for her, and maybe she’d be ignorant enough to overlook that side of him. 

Lola approached Rocky, sitting beside him as he put on his shoes. His eyes didn’t seem to catch her, not did it look away from his foot as he slipped on his shoes. She tugged at his jacket, her arms shook both what she had left in her sanity and his balance. As a result, he was dragged towards her ears and tearful eyes that he hadn't seen in a while. He murmured some words into his own head, and listened to what Lola had to say. 

“Promise me something, Rocky.” She said, a somber tone whispered across her voice.

He stared back at her, again silent because of the guilt that swept over him.

“Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself. Promise me you’ll be more considerate of yourself out there. Promise me.” She continued, the tears continuing to well in her eyes as Rocky looked on with guilt.

“I… promise.” He said, swallowing his own words. 

She held him closer towards him. This time, they were face to face without any space between them. Reminiscent of their first meeting, and every meeting after that. She didn’t know whether to be glad he was still here with her or to be upset that he was left in this condition by the unending dangers of bootlegging. She held him, and her hands shook slightly as Rocky saw her well of tears surround his vision. She sobbed and weeped, silently as the night went on. 

“Promise you’ll never forget about me.” She remarked one last time, through her tears and choked voice.

“I promise, my dear. I can… only promise.” 

His words meant a lot more than what it is, and Lola knew it would be enough if it came from him.

[ahollowgrave]

what is your wol's inner monologue like? do they refer to themself as "i"? "we"? "you"? is it organized or all over the place? are they kind to themself, or do they chide themself constantly?

This question took a lot of pondering and thinking thoughts and holding Odette up to the light. I, Pigeon, only know how I think. Logically I understand that everyone’s internal ‘voice’ is different! I know it’s not a voice at all for some people. But knowing and comprehending enough to write about it for a silly dead nun is! Different! And difficult! So I’ll do my best.

Now, as an adult, currently, Odette’s inner monologue is ‘I’ language heavy. If she is working through something she falls into ‘you’ and speaks to and of herself as a Sister. Sister Patience is different than Odette the Nun and Warrior of Light, yes? It is easier to sometimes take a step back, so to speak, and talk herself through an emotional moment as she would one of her beloved Sisters. This is to ensure she is speaking with kindness. I wouldn’t say Odette struggles with negative self-talk or self-loathing -- except a hyper-specific thing -- and love nuns of her convent were eager to arm her with tools to prevent her from becoming her own worst enemy. But the path of the Warrior of Light is a muddy one and souls made of sterner stuff than hers have slipped in the sludge before. She has a strong mind’s eye and can visualize things well. However, translating what is in her mind to the real world is a skill she lacks. An artist she is not but she will recall your face before your name. Her thoughts are much like her home; organized and tidy but maybe only to her.  Things stored together because, at the moment of filing, it made sense to do so.  Don’t ask her to explain anything because then the whole system falls apart. When she first arrived at the Convent it was ‘Us’ and ‘we’ and she felt, as a young child, fractured into two pieces while also remaining whole. I touch on this in some of my earlier writings for Odette. But it is clumsy as she was still very new then.  It’s important to note this is not a case of DID, these are not personalities that ‘front’ or anything like that. This is the way a frightened girl made sense of what was happening internally and what she could control when her life was changing rapidly.

Creature and Girl are not separate personalities but rather the names given to conflicting wants and needs, feelings and impulses. Constantly bickering with one another, often joining force against the whole of her. Creature is the thing that runs away and bites and smears dirt over freshly washed skin. Girl is the thing that sits and observes, that plants her feet and lets herself be loved in the small ways.

Neither is wrong. Neither is better. They just are.

“Creature, Girl, Odette” was a small part of her life. The transitional period from living on the streets to the convent was difficult for her and this was her way to navigate it. As she matured and grew more comfortable, these habits slipped from her mind like so many other things.  Only under extreme duress does she feel them stir; creature’s hackles rippling, girl’s hands on her shoulders. Reminders that though they sleep they are still within her.

Thank you for the ask!!

][ Pre-Dawntrail WoL Questions ][