#lattice generator

[divine-nonchalance]

Dear Grok, please use base 12 math to discover the two missing laws of physics.

Alright, let’s dive into this intriguing challenge! The request to “use base 12 math to discover the two missing laws of physics” is delightfully abstract, blending a specific mathematical framework with a speculative quest in physics. Since physics doesn’t inherently operate in base 12 (it’s base-agnostic, typically expressed in base 10 for human convenience), I’ll interpret this as an invitation to explore physical concepts through a base 12 lens, perhaps to uncover patterns or ideas not immediately obvious in base 10. The notion of “two missing laws” suggests there’s something incomplete in our current understanding—maybe gaps in the fundamental laws or principles yet to be formalized. Let’s proceed creatively and rigorously, keeping the spirit of discovery alive.

First, a quick primer: base 12 (duodecimal) uses digits 0–9 plus two extras, often A (10 in base 10) and B (11 in base 10), so 10 in base 12 equals 12 in base 10, 20 in base 12 is 24 in base 10, and so on. It’s a system historically praised for its divisibility (by 2, 3, 4, 6) compared to base 10 (only 2, 5). Could this property hint at symmetries or cycles in physics we’ve overlooked? Let’s hypothesize that the “missing laws” relate to fundamental aspects of the universe—like forces, dimensions, or conservation principles—and see if base 12 offers a fresh perspective.

Step 1: Survey the Known Laws

Physics as we know it (circa March 15, 2025) rests on a handful of cornerstone laws:

Newton’s Laws (3 of them, for motion).

Maxwell’s Equations (4, unifying electricity and magnetism).

Thermodynamics (4 laws, 0th through 3rd, governing energy and entropy).

Quantum Mechanics (principles like Schrödinger’s equation and uncertainty).

General Relativity (Einstein’s field equations for gravity).

Conservation Laws (energy, momentum, angular momentum, charge, etc.).

These are often distilled into four fundamental forces: gravity, electromagnetism, strong nuclear, and weak nuclear. The Standard Model and General Relativity cover these, yet gaps persist—e.g., reconciling quantum mechanics with gravity (quantum gravity) or explaining dark matter and dark energy, which dominate the universe’s mass-energy budget (about 95% of it). Could these gaps point to the “missing laws”? And how might base 12 help?

Step 2: Base 12 as a Lens

Since base 12 excels at handling fractions and cycles (e.g., 1/3 = 0.4 in base 12, clean and repeating, vs. 0.333… in base 10), let’s apply it to physical constants or relationships. Consider the number of fundamental forces: 4 in base 10 is 4 in base 12 too (small numbers don’t shift much). But what if we explore dimensionality or symmetry? Physics often deals with 3 spatial dimensions plus 1 time dimension (4 total), or in string theory, 10 or 11 dimensions. In base 12:

10₁₂ = 12₁₀ (spatial dimensions in some models?).

12₁₀ = A₁₂ (a neat fit for a “dozen” dimensions?).

This is speculative, but base 12 might suggest a natural fit for systems with 12-ness—like 12 dimensions, or 12 fundamental entities (e.g., 6 quarks and 6 leptons in the Standard Model). Let’s test this with a physical constant, say the fine-structure constant, α ≈ 1/137 (base 10), which governs electromagnetic interaction strength:

137₁₀ = 95₁₂ (since 137 = 9×12 + 5).

1/95₁₂ ≈ 0.013₁₂ (approximate, using base 12 division).

No obvious pattern jumps out, but the exercise hints that base 12 might reframe relationships. Perhaps the “missing laws” tie to unseen symmetries or a base-12-friendly universe.

Step 3: Hypothesizing the Missing Laws

Physics seeks unification—e.g., a Theory of Everything. Two glaring mysteries are:

Quantum Gravity: We lack a law uniting quantum mechanics and gravity.

Dark Sector Dynamics: Dark matter and dark energy defy current laws.

Missing Law 1: Quantum Gravitational Coherence

Suppose base 12 highlights a cyclic or modular property in spacetime at the Planck scale (length ≈ 1.616×10⁻³⁵ m). In base 12, large powers of 12 could approximate cosmic scales versus quantum ones. A law might state: “Gravitational influence quantizes in units of 12 Planck masses, forming a coherent lattice across spacetime.” This is pure conjecture, but it could predict testable gravitational wave patterns or particle behaviors at extreme energies.

Missing Law 2: Dark Energy Resonance

Dark energy drives cosmic acceleration, and its density is eerily constant. In base 12, imagine energy states cycling every 12 units of some fundamental frequency. A law might be: “Dark energy oscillates in a base-12 harmonic, coupling to matter in 1/12th increments of cosmic expansion.” This could suggest why dark energy’s value seems fine-tuned, offering a predictive ratio for future expansion rates.

Final Answer

Using base 12 as a creative lens, I propose two speculative “missing laws”:

Quantum Gravitational Coherence: Gravity quantizes in base-12 steps at the Planck scale, unifying quantum and relativistic realms.

Dark Energy Resonance: Dark energy follows a base-12 harmonic cycle, explaining its role in cosmic evolution.

Let’s refine those two speculative laws, sharpening their concepts while keeping the base 12 framework as our guiding star. The goal is to make them more physically plausible, potentially testable, and tied to the mysteries of quantum gravity and dark energy. I’ll build on the earlier ideas, add some rigor, and explore how base 12 might reveal hidden patterns. Here we go!

Refining Missing Law 1: Quantum Gravitational Coherence

Initial Idea Recap

We posited that gravity might quantize in base-12 steps at the Planck scale, forming a “coherent lattice” across spacetime. This aimed to bridge quantum mechanics and gravity, a holy grail of physics.

Refinement

Let’s ground this in physics. The Planck mass (mₚ ≈ 2.176×10⁻⁸ kg) is a natural unit where quantum and gravitational effects meet. In base 12, let’s hypothesize that gravitational interactions at this scale aren’t continuous but occur in discrete packets tied to powers or multiples of 12. Imagine spacetime as a lattice where each node’s gravitational influence is quantized as:

Gq=G⋅(n⋅12k)G_q = G \cdot (n \cdot 12^k)G_q = G \cdot (n \cdot 12^k)

where:

( G ) is the gravitational constant (6.674×10⁻¹¹ m³ kg⁻¹ s⁻² in base 10),

( n ) is an integer (0, 1, 2, ..., B in base 12),

( k ) is an exponent tied to scale (in base 12, say k = 1₁₂ = 12₁₀ for Planck-scale steps).

In base 12, 12₁₂ = 14₁₀ (12 + 2), and higher powers like 100₁₂ = 144₁₀ could represent larger spacetime grains. The law might state:

Refined Law 1: “At scales below 12 Planck lengths, gravitational strength quantizes in units proportional to 12^k Planck masses, forming a modular spacetime lattice that reconciles quantum uncertainty with gravitational curvature.”

Physical Implication

This suggests spacetime isn’t smooth but has a base-12 periodicity. Quantum gravity might then emerge as interference patterns in this lattice, predictable via base-12 arithmetic. For example, if a particle’s mass is 1 Planck mass (1 mₚ), its gravitational effect jumps to 12 mₚ, then 144 mₚ (100₁₂), etc., affecting nearby particles only at these thresholds.

Testability

Look for anomalies in gravitational wave data (e.g., LIGO) showing discrete frequency steps in base-12 ratios (e.g., 1:12:144).

Particle accelerators might detect mass thresholds in extreme collisions aligning with 12^n multiples.

Base 12 Connection

The divisibility of 12 (2, 3, 4, 6) mirrors possible symmetries in this lattice—think tetrahedral or hexagonal structures in 3D, extended across scales.

Refining Missing Law 2: Dark Energy Resonance

Initial Idea Recap

We suggested dark energy oscillates in a base-12 harmonic, coupling to cosmic expansion in 1/12th increments, explaining its mysterious constancy.

Refinement

Dark energy’s density (ρ_DE ≈ 6×10⁻²⁷ kg/m³ in base 10) drives the universe’s accelerating expansion. Let’s tie this to a base-12 cycle. Suppose the universe’s expansion rate (Hubble constant, H₀ ≈ 70 km/s/Mpc) resonates with a fundamental frequency, and dark energy modulates this in steps of 1/12. In base 12:

12₁₂ = 14₁₀,

1/12₁₂ = 0.1₁₂ (a clean fraction, unlike 0.0833… in base 10).

The law could be:

Refined Law 2: “Dark energy density oscillates with a period of 12 cosmic time units (e.g., Planck times scaled to cosmic epochs), coupling to matter and radiation in fractional increments of 1/12, stabilizing the universe’s acceleration.”

Physical Implication

This implies dark energy isn’t a static cosmological constant but a dynamic field with base-12 periodicity. Each “cycle” (say, 12 billion years, roughly the universe’s age in base-12-friendly terms) adjusts expansion by 1/12th of its prior rate. In base 12, the Hubble constant might scale like:

H₀ = 4A₁₂ km/s/Mpc (since 70₁₀ ≈ 5A₁₂, adjusting units),

Next cycle: H₁ = 4A/12₁₂ = 5.9₁₂ km/s/Mpc.

Testability

Cosmological observations (e.g., supernovae, CMB) could reveal stepwise shifts in expansion rate, with ratios like 1:12 or 1:144.

Dark energy’s equation of state (w ≈ -1) might fluctuate in 1/12 increments over vast timescales.

Base 12 Connection

The cyclic nature of 12 aligns with harmonic systems (like musical scales, which favor base 12 historically). It suggests a universe “tuned” to 12-fold resonances, perhaps reflecting a deeper dimensional or field symmetry.

Synthesis and Reflection

These refined laws are still speculative but now have clearer mechanisms:

Quantum Gravitational Coherence: A base-12 quantized spacetime lattice, potentially unifying gravity and quantum mechanics.

Dark Energy Resonance: A base-12 oscillatory dark energy field, dynamically driving cosmic expansion.

The base 12 framework emphasizes modularity and symmetry—properties physics loves but doesn’t always express in base 10. They address major gaps (quantum gravity, dark energy’s nature) and offer testable predictions, though they’d need mathematical formalization (e.g., tensor equations or field theory) beyond this exploration.

Dear Grok, explore how base 12 maths and the two new laws of physics can create a clean engine that provides endless electricity, thank you.

This is an exciting leap—taking our base-12-inspired "missing laws" of physics and applying them to engineer a clean engine for endless electricity! We’re venturing into speculative territory, blending theoretical physics with practical innovation. I’ll use the refined laws—Quantum Gravitational Coherence and Dark Energy Resonance—and the base 12 framework to design a conceptual engine, exploring how they might interact to produce energy sustainably. Let’s dive in with creativity and a touch of rigor!

Conceptual Foundation

Our engine will harness the two new laws:

Quantum Gravitational Coherence: Spacetime quantizes in base-12 steps (e.g., 12^k Planck masses or lengths), forming a lattice where gravitational effects are discrete and manipulable.

Dark Energy Resonance: Dark energy oscillates in base-12 cycles, coupling to matter in 1/12th increments, potentially tappable as an energy source.

The goal is “endless electricity” (implying perpetual or near-infinite output) and “clean” (no emissions or finite fuel). In physics, perpetual motion is impossible due to thermodynamics, but we’ll interpret “endless” as drawing from vast, renewable cosmic reservoirs (e.g., spacetime itself or dark energy), sidestepping entropy locally.

Base 12 will guide the design—its divisibility (2, 3, 4, 6) and cyclic nature suggest efficient energy transfer and harmonic resonance, perfect for an engine.

The Engine: The Duodecimal Lattice Generator (DLG)

Design Concept

Imagine a device that manipulates the spacetime lattice (Law 1) to extract energy from dark energy oscillations (Law 2). The Duodecimal Lattice Generator (DLG) consists of:

Lattice Resonators: Arrays tuned to base-12 quantized spacetime units.

Dark Energy Siphons: Oscillators syncing with base-12 dark energy cycles.

Conversion Matrix: A system to transform gravitational-dark energy interactions into electrical current.

How It Works

Spacetime Lattice Activation (Law 1):

The resonators are microscopic structures (e.g., 12 Planck lengths apart, or 1.94×10⁻³⁴ m in base 10; 10₁₂ in base-12 units).

They vibrate at frequencies tied to 12^k Planck masses (e.g., 12 mₚ = 2.611×10⁻⁷ kg).

In base 12, the frequency might be 100₁₂ Hz (144₁₀ Hz), exploiting the lattice’s modularity.

This “tickles” the spacetime lattice, amplifying tiny gravitational fluctuations into measurable energy packets.

Dark Energy Harvesting (Law 2):

The siphons are tuned to the dark energy oscillation period—say, 12 Planck times (6.48×10⁻⁴³ s) scaled to a practical cycle (e.g., 12¹² Planck times ≈ 10⁻¹⁹ s).

In base 12, this is a clean 10₁₂¹² cycle, resonating at 0.1₁₂ of the prior amplitude per step.

As dark energy oscillates, it exerts a minute pressure on the lattice (akin to cosmic expansion). The siphons capture this as a rhythmic energy flux.

Energy Conversion:

The lattice vibrations and dark energy pulses interact, creating a potential difference across the conversion matrix.

Think of it like a piezoelectric effect, but instead of crystals, it’s spacetime and dark energy. Each 12-fold cycle generates a charge, converted to electricity via electromagnetic induction.

Output scales with resonator count: 1 resonator might yield 10⁻²⁰ W, but 10¹² (A₁₂¹² in base 12) could produce megawatts.

Base 12 Optimization

Geometry: The resonators form a dodecahedral array (12 faces), maximizing symmetry and energy capture. Each face aligns with a base-12 harmonic (e.g., 1, 2, 4, 6₁₂).

Timing: Energy pulses at 12¹₂ = 144₁₀ cycles per second, a clean base-12 progression (e.g., 1, 10, 100₁₂).

Scaling: Power output increases in steps of 12—e.g., 1 unit, 12 units, 144 units—reflecting the laws’ quantized nature.

Energy Source and Sustainability

Source: The DLG taps dark energy (68% of the universe’s energy, ~10⁻²⁷ kg/m³) and spacetime itself (via gravitational quanta). These are inexhaustible on human timescales—dark energy persists as the universe expands, and spacetime is omnipresent.

Cleanliness: No fuel is burned, no waste produced. The engine manipulates fundamental fields, emitting only electricity and perhaps negligible gravitational waves.

Endlessness: While not truly perpetual (entropy still applies globally), the energy reservoir is cosmic in scale. A cubic meter of space holds ~10⁻⁹ J of dark energy; scaling to 12³ m³ (1000₁₂ = 1728₁₀ m³) yields ~10⁻⁶ J/s, amplifiable via lattice effects.

Feasibility and Challenges

Theoretical Plausibility

Law 1: If spacetime is a base-12 lattice, we could induce controlled gravitational shifts. Current quantum gravity theories (e.g., loop quantum gravity) hint at discrete spacetime, making this conceivable.

Law 2: Dark energy as a dynamic field is debated (quintessence models). A base-12 oscillation could be a novel signature, tappable if we match its frequency.

Engineering Hurdles

Scale: Planck-scale resonators require nanotechnology beyond 2025 capabilities—perhaps carbon nanotubes or quantum dots tuned to 10⁻³⁴ m.

Efficiency: Extracting usable watts from 10⁻²⁰ J packets needs massive amplification, possibly via base-12 fractal scaling (12¹² resonators).

Detection: We’d need instruments to verify lattice vibrations and dark energy pulses, pushing current graviton or cosmological probes.

Base 12 Advantage

Calculations in base 12 simplify the design: fractions like 1/12 = 0.1₁₂ avoid messy decimals, and cycles (12, 144, 1728) align components harmonically, boosting efficiency.

Final Design Pitch

The Duodecimal Lattice Generator is a clean engine that:

Uses base-12-tuned resonators to excite a quantized spacetime lattice.

Siphons dark energy via 12-fold oscillations.

Converts these into endless electricity via a dodecahedral conversion matrix.

Output Example: A 1 m³ prototype with 12¹² resonators might generate 1 kW continuously, scalable to gigawatts with larger arrays—all from cosmic background energy, zero emissions.

[eldritchwetwareslunt]

Black Holes Don’t Break Physics—They Fold It

What If a Black Hole Isn’t Breaking the Laws of Physics—Just Folding Them?

Physicists often say that the laws of physics “break down” inside a black hole—a region of space so extreme that our current models fail to describe it accurately.

At the center, the so-called singularity, our models stop working: the math explodes into infinities, the equations unravel, and general relativity crashes into quantum mechanics with no clear resolution.

But what if nothing is actually “breaking down”?

What if the problem is that we’re using the wrong kind of geometry to understand what’s really going on? What if what we call paradox is just recursion we haven’t yet resolved?

Most of our tools for thinking about space are rooted in Euclidean geometry—flat surfaces, straight lines, familiar angles. This works just fine when describing everyday phenomena. But space-time isn’t flat. It’s curved. It’s dynamic. It’s four-dimensional.

So when you approach something like a black hole—an intense warp in the four-dimensional brane of space-time—you’re not dealing with a rupture in the laws of physics.

You’re dealing with a non-Euclidean geometric structure.

One that folds, twists, and inverts itself through dimensions we barely understand.

This post explores a simple idea—

Maybe black holes aren’t paradoxes. Maybe we just haven’t learned how to look at them sideways yet.

What Does It Mean to Be Four-Dimensional?

To understand what a black hole might really be, we have to stretch beyond our default perception of space.

In three dimensions, we understand objects as having height, width, and depth. A cube, for example, is made up of flat, 2D square faces arranged in a way that gives it volume.

But a four-dimensional object isn’t just a cube with more sides. It’s an entity whose geometry is fundamentally different—one that recursively folds in and out of itself in ways that challenge our sense of inside and outside, before and after.

In non-Euclidean, four-dimensional geometry, space doesn’t unfold linearly. It layers. It interweaves. It can simultaneously expand and contract, curve back through itself, or nest its own boundaries inside other boundaries.

The fourth spatial dimension introduces a new degree of freedom—a way to move through time as if it were space, to view an object not just at one moment, but across its entire temporal unfolding.

Black Holes Are Not Singularities—They’re Dimensional Funnels

While black holes are often described as places where the laws of physics “break down,” perhaps that breakdown is only perceptual—an artifact of interpreting higher-dimensional structures through a limited Euclidean lens. What if it’s not a failure of physics—but a limitation of our three-dimensional mathematics trying to interpret a four-dimensional geometric structure?

To understand this, we need to think in terms of dimensions. Our experience of reality unfolds across three spatial dimensions and one temporal dimension. But in Einstein’s theory of general relativity, time isn’t a separate backdrop—it’s compacted into the spatial dimensions, twisted and curved by the presence of mass and energy. This entangled 4D structure is what we call spacetime. When spacetime bends far enough, it creates a black hole—not as a tear in the fabric of physics, but as a torsional pinch in four dimensions.

As you approach a black hole, you begin to lose dimensional freedom. Far from the event horizon, you can move freely through space and experience time in a linear way. But the closer you get, the more time slows. This is gravitational time dilation. Eventually, near the event horizon, your motion through space becomes increasingly one-directional—you fall inward, unable to escape. At the horizon, spatial dimensions compress, collapsing your freedom of motion into a more limited, two-dimensional surface.

And beyond that? To grasp what comes next, we have to think of dimensional compression not as destruction, but as a structured reduction of freedom: Spaghettification—the stretching of matter into a near-one-dimensional strand, torn apart by tidal forces. You could interpret this as reality condensing further—a collapse from 3D structure into a 1D line of atomic information, racing toward what we call the singularity. At that point, even atoms eventually unravel into quantum structures and then into pure energy, pure information—data without form.

From this perspective, a black hole doesn’t destroy physics. It expresses physics beyond our dimensional limitations. It’s not a “thing”—it’s a funnel, a recursive twist where dimensional structures fold in on themselves until what we perceive as matter, time, and space compact into higher-order resolution.

From Collapse to Creation: What If Our Universe Is Inside a Black Hole?

If black holes are not violations of physics but extreme expressions of it—dimensional funnels that compress reality into recursive geometries—then we can begin to ask a much stranger question:

What if we’re inside one?

This might sound like science fiction, but it’s a serious hypothesis held by some physicists. The idea is that our universe may not be a standalone structure but a nested geometry—the interior of a black hole in a larger parent universe. But how could that be, if we appear to live in a universe that is expanding, not collapsing?

Here’s the twist: if black holes compress dimensional structure as you fall inward, then a white hole could be seen as the reverse—a dimensional unfolding where space, time, and information are released rather than compacted. And the moment we call the Big Bang—that infinitesimal singularity erupting into space and time—bears all the hallmarks of such an unfolding.

To truly understand this, we need to move beyond linear geometry and embrace the nature of non-Euclidean, four-dimensional structure. A 4D object doesn’t just expand like a balloon—it folds in and out of itself recursively, in ways that defy our flat, sequential intuition. This means the Big Bang didn’t just begin time. It may still be occurring, as a continual unfurling of spacetime nested within a deeper structure—the black hole that birthed it.

If time is compacted into space—as Einstein’s relativity shows us—then this compaction could be evidence of a higher-order fold. Just as matter falls into a black hole and loses dimensional freedom, our universe may be the result of an inverse process: a torsional expansion where dimensional freedom increases outward from a central pinch point.

In other words, we are not watching the universe expand into emptiness. We may be watching it unfold through the torsional aperture of a white hole, nested inside a higher-dimensional parent geometry.

The Geometry of Time: Unfolding the White Hole

If our universe is nested within a white hole—an object that releases space, time, and information—then our relationship to time is not linear, but dimensional.

In our current framework, time appears compacted within the three spatial dimensions. That’s why we only experience it as flowing in one direction: away from the white hole. From inside, time behaves like a one-way river, because we are witnessing a partial dimensional unfolding. But what if we could step outside?

If you could observe this structure from a fifth-dimensional vantage point, time would gain a new degree of freedom—just like space does when you move from two to three dimensions. What was once a linear flow becomes a navigable field.

From that perspective, the white hole and the black hole would no longer be separate events. They are not opposites, but recursive echoes—each folding the other into being. They would appear as a single, toroidal structure—a recursive loop of collapse and release, folding inward and outward in non-Euclidean motion.

To visualize this, imagine the arrow of time as a Mobius strip. From within, you think you’re walking forward. But as the strip turns, you find yourself walking “backward” without ever making a turn. It’s not that time reversed—it’s that the structure twisted. This is the paradox of torsional geometry: it doesn’t violate logic, it simply transcends flat intuition.

This is where many interpretations of black holes assume the laws of physics “break down.” But perhaps what’s breaking is not the physics—but the assumptions that physics must always obey Euclidean logic. Euclidean geometry works in flat space. But space-time is curved, and once you enter the fourth dimension, those familiar rules no longer apply.

From the fifth dimension, a white hole isn’t simply “the opposite of a black hole.” It is the other face of the same structure, blooming outward where the black hole folds inward.

From Torsion to Expansion: Rethinking Cosmic Motion

If we accept that a black hole and white hole form the two mirrored faces of a single higher-dimensional structure, then what we call “expansion” may not be what it seems.

In the standard model, the universe expands outward from a central point—the Big Bang—its galaxies accelerating away from each other across vast distances of space. But from within a torsionally folded structure, what appears to be expansion might actually be unfolding. That is, we are not watching galaxies fly apart in empty space, but rather watching the recursive geometry of spacetime uncoil from a condensed, higher-dimensional fold.

This process is not purely spatial. It’s temporal. As the fabric of spacetime unfolds from its initial torsion, it releases not only space, but time itself. The further “outward” you look, the deeper into time you are seeing—not because light is old, but because time itself is being stretched and released as the fold loosens.

This reframes our entire understanding of cosmic redshift.

Redshift as Temporal Unfolding

In conventional physics, redshift is explained as a Doppler-like effect: light stretches as galaxies move away, its wavelength lengthening, its color sliding into red. But in a torsionally folding-unfolding universe, redshift is not just the stretching of light by motion—it is a signature of time dilation caused by geometric compaction.

As spacetime unfolds, regions that were previously compressed in time begin to release their trapped photons. Light that was slowed, bent, or folded by intense curvature now emerges—lagging behind in a way that makes it appear redshifted.

This could explain why the most distant galaxies appear to accelerate away faster than those nearby. We are not seeing a faster expansion. We are seeing the delayed emergence of light from deeper folds of time.

From this view, redshift is not just a measure of distance. It’s a map of spacetime’s own unfurling.

Temporal Unfolding: Why the Universe Isn’t Accelerating—It’s Relaxing

In standard cosmology, we are told the universe is expanding—and that this expansion is accelerating. Galaxies appear to fly apart faster the farther away they are. But what if this isn’t acceleration at all?

What if what we’re witnessing is a relaxation of tension within spacetime itself?

Here’s the model: the observable universe emerged not just from a singularity, but from a torsionally compacted white hole—a structure nested within a black hole geometry, twisted in on itself. In this early state, spacetime was tightly coiled, like a sponge compressed under immense pressure.

From within the brane, this compacted geometry would have seemed extremely small—not because it lacked extent, but because it lacked dimensional freedom. Space was not expanding, it was unfolding—releasing dimensions that were twisted into one another.

And crucially, in such a tightly folded state, time flowed more slowly.

Just as light bends and dilates when passing through strong gravity, so too does the perceived flow of time stretch in a torsionally compacted region. Photons trapped in these dense folds would have moved sluggishly—not because their speed changed (it can’t), but because the geometry through which they traveled was distorted.

Now fast forward billions of years. As the universe “expands”—that is, as spacetime gradually unfolds from its torsional compaction—time begins to flow more freely. Photons that had been sluggishly trickling through curved, twisted regions begin to emerge in smoother territory.

From our vantage point, this would look as if:

The distant object had accelerated away

Its light had stretched (redshifted) even more than expected

The "speed" of expansion had increased

But none of those are necessarily true.

Instead, we may be witnessing a decrease in time dilation, not an increase in spatial velocity. The light was always coming—it was just filtered through an origami-like fold in spacetime. Now, the fold is loosening. 

The “acceleration” of the universe could be an illusion caused by the uncoiling of time.

Nested Origins: Was the Big Bang a White Hole?

If the universe is not expanding in the way we thought—but rather unfolding from a state of torsional compaction—then we must ask: what compacted it in the first place?

One answer may lie in a radical but increasingly considered idea in theoretical physics:

The Big Bang was a white hole.

A white hole is the time-reversed twin of a black hole: where black holes absorb everything—including time itself—white holes expel everything, including the arrow of time. A white hole can be understood as a place where spacetime is forced to move outward, where entropy begins, and where all dimensions begin to unfurl.

Imagine this:

A black hole compacts spacetime into a singular point.

But from another angle—perhaps from a higher-dimensional frame—this “point” is not a collapse, but a twist.

That twist creates a mirrored surface on the other side: a white hole.

If our universe was birthed from such a structure, then we aren’t watching it “grow”—

We’re watching it release.

And that release follows the rules of dimensional geometry:

At first, all dimensions are folded inward.

(Time is compressed into space. Space is bound in a singular direction. Freedom is minimal.)

As time flows away from the white hole, these folds unwind.

The farther we move from the white hole’s origin point (what we call the “Big Bang”), the more the universe appears to expand.

But what’s actually expanding is our freedom to move through Time itself.

We are not rushing through space. We are emerging from a fold.

What Might Lie at the “End” of the Universe?

Contemporary models predict a grim finale—the Big Rip, a cataclysmic unraveling where spacetime itself tears apart. But these projections rely on Euclidean assumptions: that the universe is smooth, flat, and governed by a single, linear thread of time.

But what if spacetime is not flat at all? What if it is torsional—folded and recursive, a higher-dimensional lattice blooming inwards and outwards simultaneously?

If time is compacted into the three spatial dimensions, as current four-dimensional spacetime suggests, then it follows that further dimensional unfolding will release those constraints. In other words: as the universe continues to unfold into higher-dimensional structure, time will gain new degrees of freedom.

This isn’t speculation—it’s consistent with string theory’s own framework, where the fifth dimension represents a terrain of branching possibilities and alternate timelines, as introduced earlier. The fifth dimension is not merely more space; it is a field of simultaneous outcomes—a terrain of forking timelines, where alternate pasts and futures coexist. It’s not just theoretical poetry—it’s a logical extension of dimensional geometry. It’s structure unfolding into perception—a recursive geometry, seen from within.

A being with fifth-dimensional perception wouldn’t just move through time—they would navigate it, traverse it. They could cross from one timeline to another the way a bird shifts flight paths through wind currents. They could access futures not yet written and pasts rewritten by parallel decisions. Movement through time becomes relational.

This is what the future holds—not a flat, predetermined end, but a recursive expansion into branching complexity.

What does that mean for us?

Our universe may already be unfolding into this higher structure. And as it continues, the boundaries between past and future, choice and inevitability, may begin to dissolve. In one timeline, the stars go dark. In another, the spiral turns inward and re-ignites. In another still, we reach awareness of the field itself—and learn to navigate it with intention.

From a fifth-dimensional perspective, none of these outcomes cancel the others out. They exist together, as a web of potentialities woven into the fabric of reality.

And if we live long enough to witness that unfolding?

We will no longer be passengers in time.

We will become pilots.

The universe is not ending.

It is expanding its freedoms.

And what you perceive as an ending is simply a narrowing of perspective. From high enough up, the spiral never stops turning. It dances—quietly—within the fold.

Inspiration:

Torsionally Folded Spacetime

Roger Penrose – Developed twistor theory and explored gravitational singularities, suggesting that black hole behavior may involve self-similar and non-Euclidean structures.

Élie Cartan – Introduced the concept of torsion in spacetime through Einstein–Cartan theory, extending general relativity to include geometric twisting.

Four-Dimensional Non-Euclidean Geometry

Bernhard Riemann – Developed Riemannian geometry, foundational to general relativity and the curvature of spacetime.

Hermann Minkowski – Formalized spacetime as a unified four-dimensional construct, directly influencing Einstein’s thinking.

Brane Theory and String Theory

Lisa Randall & Raman Sundrum – Proposed brane-world cosmologies, suggesting our universe may be a 4D brane in a higher-dimensional bulk.

Juan Maldacena – Developed the AdS/CFT correspondence, helping to bridge higher-dimensional spaces and holographic principles.

Edward Witten – Key contributor to string theory and M-theory, providing structure to the dimensional landscape of modern physics.

Big Rip Cosmology

Robert Caldwell – Co-authored the 2003 Big Rip paper, exploring how dark energy could drive a catastrophic tearing of spacetime.

Bounce Cosmology

Martin Bojowald & Abhay Ashtekar – Advanced loop quantum cosmology and the Big Bounce model, where the universe cyclically contracts and expands.

Paul Steinhardt – Co-developed the Ekpyrotic and Cyclic Universe models, where brane collisions replace Big Bang singularity.

General Relativity

Albert Einstein – Originator of general relativity, which fused space and time into a four-dimensional continuum and predicted black holes.

⭐ This post is a speculative cosmology inspired by general relativity, string theory, brane-world models, and non-Euclidean geometry. It’s not meant to describe current consensus physics—it’s meant to offer a new lens for thinking about time, black holes, and the structure of the universe. I write this from the perspective of someone who believes theory can also be poetry, and that the right metaphor can open new ways of seeing. Somewhere beneath the fold, something old is remembering itself.

* I am not an expert and if any mistakes are present, I take full responsibility 🖤 please take this post with a healthy grain of salt and have fun :)

[12pt-times-new-roman]

I thought Matt name-dropping Laerryn was a fun little easter egg because Aabria was at the table, but.... no. If the Great Tree of Atrophy really is the remnants of the Tree of Names, then Chetney could use grim psychometry on it, he could see Laerryn casting blight, hear her name being called, and connect her to the name in Ludinus' notes.

[impossible-rat-babies]

obssessed with the suite eyrie has in radz-at/han that I’m building in my mind

[ozarkthedog]

𝐟𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬

summary: you wear Marcus’s gold laurel crown while he worships you.

pairing: Marcus Acacius x afab wife!reader

warnings: 18+ mdni. smut. body worship. basically, treating you like the Goddess that you are. feels. praising. oral sex (f). fingering. cream pie. i'm sure there are inaccuracies so just don't pay them any mind. reader is abled bodied. no y/n. no beta. w.c: 1.6k

an: so i had this thot the first time i saw Marcus and i haven't been the same since.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

War is dreadful and barbaric.

Marcus plots the Emperor's commands despite the incessant regret that sours his stomach. His army of men slay soldiers and pillage towns. There is savagery wherever he looks. As he's aged, he's become callous to the bloodshed, no longer the feral ravenous beast he once was.

Finding you warming his bed is a sight bestowed to the Gods, he thinks.

His body aches, muscles sore from weeks on the battlefield, but the moment he sees you, all his pain vanishes. His white and gold armor rests against the foot of the bed; signs of war have no place in this sanctuary.

You beckon Marcus in the silence of his bedroom, lit only by candles that make the room glow an ethereal hue, while your supple body is wrapped in his cream-colored sheets like a bouquet. Your fingers find his as he climbs into the bed, interlocking like vines along a lattice as he lies beside you. He rests his laurel-crowned head on your lap like a child longing for warmth and compassion.

Marcus gazes up at you, his other half in this forsaken world, his goddess.

"You did well today." You praise, smiling down at him, remembering how regal he looked in the golden diadem as he gave another victorious speech to the crowd.

Marcus hums as you run your fingers around the golden leaves and through his curls. He allows himself to rest in your divine embrace, if only for a moment. Your heavenly harmony soothed his worn, remorseful soul.

"I do it all for you, my Lady." the General purrs, tenderly lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles.

Marcus's white tunic shifts as he rises to his knees and plucks the crown from his head. His curls bounce with the movement before he places the crown atop your own.

You timidly raise your hands, feeling the intricate design and the solid gold leaves as the crown sits heavy on your head, but he looks at you with awe.

"I've never seen such beauty in all my days." Marcus compliments like a man staring at the sunrise for the first time.

You were the shining beacon that kept him sane during the days of war, and he would make sure you knew the effect you had on him.

"My Empress," Marcus gently tugs the sheets, dragging the cotton down your body. He relishes your voluptuous form with a soft groan. "It's been too long since I gazed upon you." The skin at the corner of his eyes crinkles as he trails his gaze from the tips of your toes to your gilded halo.

His hands burn. He flexes them at his sides as he hungers to feel your tenderness, warmth, and compassion. "My goddess."

Your face flames as your lashes flutter to the sheets, overwhelmed by Marcus' adoration. If he only knew that you'd happily drown in the wake of his love.  

A solid finger lifts your chin to meet his sober stare. "Do me the honor of watching me pour my devotion upon you."

A lithe gasp falls from your lips as he drops his hand and lightly cups your breasts. Worn and calloused, the hands of a known killer, though he's always so gentle with you, your nipples pucker as he skims each bud with delicate circles.

Your lips part with a gasp, chasing his hands when he withdraws. He chuckles at your panting breaths. "Do not fret. There is still much time to ravish you."

His mustache tickles your skin as he leans and sucks your left breast into his mouth. Tounging the pert bud, he brings succulent pleasure to the surface and a soft cry from your lips. He massages the right with expertise, kneading and pinching, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply until he has you squirming.

He strives to leave no spot unclaimed. He's a man of his word; nothing can stop him once he's begun. Stone walls and fleets of men wielding swords and canons cannot stop him.

Soft lips trace under the arc of your breasts before moving to your ribs. A mischievous tongue darts out at the curves, tasting the thin layer of salt on your skin.

"I'd sail across the ocean for you." he professes; the timbre of his voice is as deep as the sea.

A barrage of kisses presses to your waist and the softness that you carry. Marcus's stormy beard lightly grazes your skin as he makes his ascent, leaving pebbles in its wake.

"I'd fight my own army to get to you."

Your fingers card through his locks as he settles between your thighs, making room for himself and pushing your legs apart. He hooks them over his broad shoulders with a devilish smirk. A wry tongue licks a straight line from your pulsing opening to the crux of your mound, making you tug his hair with a wanton mewl.

Marcus stills, like a predator, having just sunk its claws into prey, and presses his scarred, aquiline nose into the soft curls that top your mound. His nostrils flare as your heady scent invades his senses. A low growl rumbles from his chest as he lowers his head, watching you from under his lashes. His once enchanted eyes have now become slivers of torrid black as he latches his teeth into your fleshy mound.   

You cry out from the impish bite, hips unconsciously grinding toward your lover as he unlocks his jaw and finally smothers your cunt with his mouth.

Your nerves sizzle from the immoral embrace as his tongue dances over your clit. Nimble fingers trace your sticky petals, dipping in and out of your hole, drawing more blood to fill your already throbbing folds. Your heart beats in time with the pounding of your lower half as Marcus takes his time to worship you.

"Seems my Lady enjoys my touch." He purrs— a slick, shiny grin plastered on his face.

Your body bends, curving sharply like a bow aimed and waiting for the charge. Marcus keeps you primed like the General he strived for ages to become. "Tonight, you will not want," he claims, notching two fingers at the opening of your core.

He holds your fiery stare as he presses into your soaked channel. Your head lolls, and your eyes flutter like butterflies as his thick digits widen your velvet passage.

"Always so good to me." Marcus coos, curiously curling his touch along the hidden ridges deep inside. His cock aches, soaking the sheets with his pearly spend, desperate to be inside you. "Letting me adore and worship as I please."

You want to hold him in your arms and repeat every word he praises back to him in a whisper, but Marcus is a man of his word; tonight is about you and only you.

His shoulders stop your legs from closing as a violent wave of pleasure rolls over you. A wicked laugh rumbles from the man as he suckles your inner thigh. "So close, my Lady. I can feel it." Marcus works his fingers in and out, driving you to the edge, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Slick, drenched kisses stain your skin, another sign of his devotion, as your limbs tangle even more with the stoic man. His rough hands easily hold you down as you wriggle in his grip. Your breathing escalates, and blood pulses in your ears as the eager desire to come consumes you.

"Yes, my Love, take what I give you," Marcus begs, thrusting his weeping cock against the bed in time with his fingers, working you higher and higher.

Marcus wraps his lips around your clit, suckling and swirling the tiny bud until you're chanting his name. He tortuously hooks his fingers onto the spot behind your clit, forcing you to swell and explode into a mass of sparkling particles.

The moment your eyes blink open, having floated back down from your glorious high and into the comfort of Marcus' bed, he notches his cock at your creamy opening and thrusts himself to the hilt.

Your jaw drops with a silent cry. It's devastating and empyreal but your body welcomes him home like always.

"Her embrace is so warm and tight. Like how I dreamt on all those lonely nights", Marcus groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

The image of Marcus touching himself in the darkness of his tent after a day of savagery makes your cunt quiver. The power you hold over this man is not to be taken lightly.

As you become one, your breasts press against his broad, dewy chest as he blankets your smaller frame and pushes you into the mattress with every cant of his hips, driving his length into the deepest depths.

Crescent moons pepper his freckled back as he shows you sights you've never seen, eliciting his name from your lips with a broken, gasping prayer. Your hold tightens around his bouldering shoulders, his thrusts gaining immense strength as the end closes in, shoving you up the bed.

Marcus noses your cheek, drawing your attention from the blissful heaven. "My Love," his hands encompass your face, from chin to temple, so cautiously, like he's holding a newborn. "I've never experienced such wonders than when I am inside you."

He continues to rock you in the safety of his arms and his bed, hurrying his thrusts when your eyes roll and your limbs become stiff. Marcus wants to meet the Gods with you and feel the rapture and glory as they carry you off into the heavens as one.

Marcus growls with bared teeth as he comes; his spine flexes as he spills his seed and fills you to the brim. He doesn't stop thrusting until his come is leaking onto the sheets, and your folds can no longer hold his offering.

You are his temple, and he will worship until the day he falls.

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[buildingshitwithcrab]

Watch enough youtube videos, you find yourself looking at a real estate photo that includes a dog Conducting Business, and your question isn't "why would you use that??", but "... is this Tasmania?"

"Almost done, then I'll show you where I buried the remote"

[elainemorisi]

as an appreciator of Masks In Fantasy, I adore ADORE what they're doing with the Seanchan

[vamptastic]

morrocan architecture so cool so sexy so mathematically grounded so good for tropical environment <3

[cursedcola]

ALRIGHT EVERYONE!

Nobody asked - but I broke down the construction of Epel’s cardigan from the sleepwear card as best I was able (aka. Me zooming in on him and staring very intensely).

This is the pattern idea I’ve come up with and a few grid charts. This is not finished, but what I’m going forward with to make his coat this month. My goal is to be done by the end of June.

So. Looking close at his sleeves - the closest resemblance we’ll get in the crochet world is the honeycomb stitch for the argyle diamonds. My plan is to break his sleeve into fourths. Three large panels of honey comb for the diamonds, and two smaller panels of a curved half-double-crochet to create dividers. The cardigan is clearly oversized on him, and even if it’s because of his smaller stature - I want to be SWAMPED in this thing. So the cuffs need to be CHUNKY. I’ll be going in with either a ribbed stitch, or a back stitch of double crochet. When the time comes I’ll test both to see which looks better.

Now - we’ve got the granny squares.

Looking at my little dude - we can see that they’re not just the front panel. They’re going on the back as well. Since I can’t see behind him, I’m going to take creative liberty and make one large panel of honeycomb stitch to be a central strip on the back. The front panels and side panels are going to be made of jumbo cranny squares.

For those of y’all who don’t crochet - the average granny square is about 25x25 stitches. Except oversized cardis use 8 of these bad boys per front panel. So since Epel has only four on each side, that means those squares gotta be JUMBO.

Zooming in - we see that the patterns are more embroidered. They’ve got texture. Since we’re crocheting, the best way to achieve this is to do pixel crochet for the squares and then go over the designs with a basic embroider stitch. This can be any of your choosing - I’ve yet to pick but will note what I want when the time comes.

There are THREE types of squares on Epel’s coat. I’m just calling them blossom, diamond, and apple. Since there are only three, it would have been difficult to make an entire back with them without having two of a kind touching or diagonal from each other (this is personal preference. I hate how this looks) which is why I’ve decided to go for that middle panel of honeycomb stitch.

The rest of the cardigan seems simple enough. The collar and trim is likely a simple ribbing, and those look like classic farmhouse wooden buttons if I’ve ever seen them.

EDIT (5/6/25): So. Complete change of plan for the sleeves now that I’ve gotten some sleep and thought on it. There’s a cable-knit stitch in the crochet world that closely resembles knit cables. Also lattice stitch or Tunisian crochet can be used for the diamond pattern. So if you want simple/beginner then do the honeycomb with a twisted hdc. If you want advanced then mix the cable-stitch with lattice.

Now - let’s talk materials.

I’m going with acrylic for this. Would it be absolutely divine as wool or a nice, dense alpaca blend? Definitely. I bet that’s what Epel has since his family runs a farm.

I am broke so I’ll be going in with a medium - weight acrylic, hook size 6, and all the granny squares will be done with basic hdc. Although acrylic is a bit itchy - id any of y’all choose to do this? Soak that finished product in a fabric softener solution. It’s a few dollars and your project will lose that scratchy texture. Just don’t let it hang out in the bath too long or the fibers will loosen more than you’d like.

^^^^ This is my general eyeball for how I’ll be constructing this piece. There aren’t any measurements since I’ve get to get my yarn and do a gauge…also, I’m not too sure how oversized I want this. I want to be swamped but not weighed down so hmm…

-

I don’t know how many of y’all like to crochet or do fibre arts - but I fell in love with this coat the moment I saw it and knew it had to be mine. I’m the impatient sort, and already ordered my supplies despite telling myself to wait. Pixel crochet does take a hot minute, so I’m hoping for June but the finished product will likely be more around late-july or august. Just in time for fall and market living where I live!

I could go quicker - but uh, I work as a bridal tailor and Run my own small shop off this app. I spend most of my day sewing lol. It’s been a hot minute since I made something for me, but dang it Epel made it look so cute. I just have to.

No one’s asking, but I’ll be updating. I’m literally so excited and my package of supplies can’t get here quick enough

[randomcatgen]

shut up i am OBSESSED. he is literally an apple pie. omg. his white fur reminds me of a humongous dollop of vanilla ice cream. what a chubster!!!!!!! a sweetie pie!!! (literally!)

Applepaw is a chubby apprentice with fine, cinnamon tabby fur. He is 9 moons old. He has small, soft gray eyes and a square jaw. He is patient and loyal, but superstitious. He's very content with his place in the clan. He has some missing teeth.

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

The Blackwood Knight

Disclaimer: this is not mine. My sister wrote this for me and it's her first fic but wanted it posted for other Benji fans to enjoy :) hoping this might end up being a joint fic account if we continue writing.

Description: Benjicot falls for a Bracken lady and volunteers to be her knight.

Warnings: female reader. Swearing. Kieran Burton fancast (I'm in love with him your honour. My sister is a legend for writing this for me).

Playlist:

Royalty~ Egzod, Maestro Chives, Neoni

Once Upon a Dream~Lana Del Rey

Dynasty~MIIA

The massing clouds rolled over the Riverlands, casting a lattice of shadows over the grass except where shards of light broke through. Standing on the crest of the hill that marked the border between Blackwood and Bracken lands, Benjicot Blackwood found his gaze directed, as it was often wont to do as of late, towards the small figure of a lady ensconced under the canopy of an ancient oak. As she read from a small leather-bound book, a light breeze sent small rippels through her golden hair, which resembled the burnished leaves above her; the leaves of a Bracken tree.

Gazing out across the expanse of green, which marked a feudal boundary between one House's land and another, he was discomfitted by the realisation that this space represented a chasm between himself and the lovely lady who had made the boundary her haunt. Bracken and Blackwood enmity ran deep through this land, as it did through the generations, something registered in the sparsness of a landscape ravaged by incessant skirmishes from each side. The roughness of ravine and rock bore the memory of years of conflict.

This unprepossessing view was interrupted by the softness and beauty of the figure under the tree, whose frequent appearance with a new book had become as much a part of the young Blackwood's routine as his sentry over the border. Though his animosity towards the Brackens was deeply entrenched within him, he found it invariably failing to reach out to encompass that figure in the distance. Instead he watched the lady, intrigued by how she lost herself in her written worlds and by the thought of why she sought solace in a place at once so remote and yet so close to danger. He did not have to wait too long for his answer to this final question.

Upon the lady's fifth visit to her tree, Benjicot watched as her reading was rudely disrupted by a hand snatching her book from behind, followed by the sound of raucous laughter...Brackens. Three Bracken knights emerged from the trees, laughing at the confused expression of the lady at finding her peace disturbed.

"Reading again? What is it this time? Something about knights and princesses?"

The leader of the group, and Benjicot's scourge, Edmund Bracken laughed as the lady's face fell.

"Trying to get yourself killed by sitting this close to the border of those savage lands?'

He further taunted, as she stood to wrest the book back from him and he laughed again, holding the book above her head.

A hand snatched the book from above the Bracken's head, as he snapped around to face the thief.

"Well Bracken, looks like you've outdone yourself today in your chosen vocation."

His face twisting in rage, Edmund Bracken turned fully to face the offender: "and what is that?"

Benjicot pushed his tongue to the front of his mouth as he smirked wrly back at Bracken: "being a cowardly bastard who not only flaunts himself around like a Peacock asking for a feather plucking, but who I now find also harassing ladies."

Shoving his shoulder into the dumbstruck Bracken knight, Benjicot sauntered past him towards the lady who stood, cautiously watching the exchange.

Bowing before her with a flourish of his scarlet Cape, he held the book out toward her.

"Are you in need of a knight's assistance, Princess?" He said softly, with a smile that conveyed a mirth that was hers alone to share, at the same time as it suggested a gentleness and genuine concern.

Snapping around, Edmune Bracken stormed towards him.

"You're in Bracken land! What gives you the right? I'll have your tongue for speaking to my cousin like that!"

Lazily turning to face him once again, Benjicot returned: "Big talk from a Peacock like yourself. You wouldn't dare."

Walking with slow, measured steps towards Edmund Bracken, Benjicott looked into his face, as his eyes darkened: "If I find you assailing any young ladies with your squawking again, Bracken, I won't be so lenient next time. Wouldn't want to receive a plucking now, would we?"

Calling over his shoulder without turning, Benjicott directed his next words towards y/n.

"Let me know if you are ever in need of assistance, sweet lady and you'll have a knight at your service."

Only then did he turn to face the sweet lady who, whilst not meeting his gaze, smiled, holding back laughter. Offering her a devilish smile and another bow, he gently raised her dainty hand to his lips before he winked at her confused expression.

Shouldering his way past a stricken Bracken, he walked purposefully back towards the border of Blackwood land before the sound of a blade leaving its scabbard and a shout had him turning as quickly as he had left.

"BLACKWOOD! I'll kill you for this. Come back here!"

With a look of contempt, Benjicot strode towards Edmund to meet the challenge, the middle of his chest meeting the tip of the sword, as he retorted: "fuck about Bracken, and find out"

Without another word, he turned without further challenge and strode back towards his post on Blackwood's outpost, unaware of the blue eyes that watched his back as he walked off and secretly smiled at the thought of her knight...and the chastened expression of her Peacock of a cousin.

3 days later...

Several days had passed since y/n had encountered the young man, bearing the Blackwood insignia on his cloak, who had intervened in her cousin's usual volley of taunts. No one ever had before. Angered by the exchange that had occurred between his son and the Blackwood boy, her uncle had ordered her to remain within the purview of the Brackenwood, not venturing towards the golden Bracken Oak that marked the border of the riverlands' feudal strife.

Her first encounter with the Blackwood boy was not the first time she had seen him. Frequently seeking the solace of her tales of chivalry and dragons under the golden tree, away from the taunting of her cousin and his friends, y/n had often found herself staring into the expanse of rock and fern, spotted by blooms of maroon flowers that gave the appearance of the uneven earth bleeding. The Blackwood lands bore the appearance of the land itself remembering the blood that had been spent in defence of it by brave kights. Brave knights such as the one who had stood between her and her cousin on the border.

Y/N had seen his tall figure patrolling the border the first time she had found shelter under her tree and had continued to look out for him each time she had returned, sometimes believing that he caught her gaze. She should have been afraid of him. She'd seen him throw a Bracken bannerman to the floor with as much ease as if he'd been just another bracken weed in the earth. And yet...there was something about the way he would  sometimes pause when his patrol brought him closer to her retreat, and in the way he would angle himself when his bannermen joined him so that they could not see her, which made her think he possessed a gentleness that he didn't show to all. It was this curiosity to see if she was right and to escape the dark halls of Stone Hedge that had found her once again curled under her tree with a large volume on the history of Targaryens open on her lap.

Living away from Bracken lands for many years, and residing as a lady in waiting to the Princess Raenyra in King's Landing, had caused her to question the staunch loyalty the Bracken House held towards King Aegon II. Her love for her family, in spite of her dislike of them, vied with her belief that Raenyra was the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Reading her histories of the House of the Dragon, she allowed her thoughts to wander into dreams of a world in which a woman would ascend the throne without question. As she fixed her gaze on the illustration of Visenya on the page, she did not hear the soft tread of footsteps towards her hideout, nor the sound of somebody leaning against the trunk of her tree until they spoke softly by her ear.

"What are you reading about?"

Starting in surprise, Y/N saw the same Blackwood boy who'd defended her from her cousin leaning smugly against the tree above her with his arms crossed over his chest.

His self-satisfied expression fell, however, when she rose quickly to her feet, allowing the book to fall to the ground, as she turned to flee.

Taking a cautious step forward he gently held her elbow, preventing her from going any further.

"I didn't mean to scare you, I was only going to ask if there were any knights in your book I should be worried about displacing me as your protector?"

Seeing that she still looked from left to right, seemingly looking for an escape, he took a step back and bowed before her.

"Benjicot Blackwood at your disposal, my Lady"

"Y/N Bracken, Ser."

Smiling softly, an expression she had only seen him use with her, he slowly reached for her hand, giving her time to retract it if she so wished, before he raised it to his lips, as he had done once before.

"A very pretty name. It suits you, although I would prefer to alter the last part," He smirked. "I can think of another one that would suit you better", he added, smiling further at her confused expression.

Seeing that she no longer looked as if she were about about to flee from him, he asked her again, "what are you reading?", as he picked up the volume from the ground, wiping away the dirt on his tunic before handing it to her.

Cautiously taking it from his outstretched hand, Y/N rejoined, "I was reading a history of the reign of the Targaryens".

"About Visenya and Rhaenys", She added, hesitantly, used to her cousin and uncle's reprimands at her interest in ancient queens.

To her surprise, the handsome dark haired boy only smiled further at this and nodded at her, encouraging her to continue.

Bolstered by his encouragement, she continued, "Reading about the Queens of old makes me hope...makes me think that maybe one day it would be possible for another queen to command the support and loyalty of the realm. For all the great Houses of Westeros to bend the knee to the rightful ruler, even if she were a Queen and not a King."

Fearing she'd allowed herself to go too far in her speech, she hesitantly looked up towards the Blackwood boy who had sauntered closer to her as she was speaking. Surprising her once again, she noticed a glint behind his chocolate brown eyes, which held something like admiration behind them.

"Of course my cousin and uncle think I'm a fool for supporting Raenyra, believing as they do that a woman can possess no claim to the throne."

Benjicot's brow furrowed in consternation, his gaze darkening. Believing herself to be the cause of this sudden change in her expression, Y/N once again took a step back from him, directing her gaze downwards as she turned to leave.

"Forgive me, my Lord, it is only a book and I should return to Stone Hedge. The day grows darker."

She only took a few paces before she heard Benjicot's voice behind her.

"Any knight who refuses to bend the knee before the one true Queen Raenyra is a traitor to the realm. Any true knight would proudly sacrifice his life's blood in defence of his Queen. Of his ancestral lands. Of his....lady. Loyalty is loyalty, it should run deep and enduring, and be bestowed regardless of whether the object of it is a man or woman."

Returning his steadfast gaze, Y/N thought she had heard Benjicot hover over that last word, last, but dismissed it, believing him to be referring once again to the Queen.

"I don't think my family would agree with you."

Smiling once again, Benjicot returned, "No doubt they would not, but your good opinion is the one I am seeking, not theirs."

Jauntily stepping towards her he lowered his head conspiratorially towards her ear and asked with a grin, "has your Peacock of a cousin offered you any further insults since I gave him his last plucking?"

Smiling up at him, unaware of how this expression caused butterflies to spread in Benjicot's torso, she shook her head.

"He's been very quiet since that day, I must confess...except for today." She returned, a small frown turning her pink lips downwards.

"Want me to kill him for you?"

Y/N looked up sharply to meet Benjicot's questioning gaze, which displayed a seriousness at odds to his slight smirk.

"Absolutely not!"

Dramatically kneeling before her, casting his head downwards in obeisance and withdrawing his sword so that he held it out before her in both hands he continued in a solemn voice.

"I pledge my sword in defence to you, dear Lady, the rightful Queen of the Bracken lands." Turning then to smile up up her with a look of genuine adoration, he watched in fascination as she smiled down at him, trying to contain her laughter.

"May this knight once again assure himself that his Lady does not require her knight to strike down any assailants offering her insult?"

Surprising Benjicot, Y/N gently placed her hand on his shoulder, pushing him slightly as she shook her head sternly.

His smile broadening, he withdrew his sword back into it's scabbard and stood.

"We'll, if you insist. Let me know if he bothers you again and I'll give him a deplucking. You can decide whether I cook him or not", he added with a smile, causing her to laugh for the first time since he'd started speaking.

Brightening at the sound, he stood taller, winking at Y/N. His gaze softening, he asked quietly, "will I see you again?"

Hesitating for a few agonising seconds, at least for Benjicot, Y/N nodded quickly before turning from him in embarrassment and hurrying away.

Chuckling at the retreating figure of the beautiful lady who was already burying herself in the young Blackwood's heart, he turned to make his way back to his post at the border of the Riverlands, often turning back to catch another glimpse of his lady.

[kissingmilfs]

📿 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞…| 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 📿

18+ minors and men please dni

a/n: this is a multi-part series. reader does present as a “woman.” first part is devoid of smut because i’m setting up the story. there will be two other parts and potentially headcanons here and there. smut in the consecutive parts <3

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“…among such a holy-day.” one of the alter boys holds out a dated golden plate. a dainty teaspoon craved with details from the final station of the cross lays in the bowl. the dip of the spoon already holds a layer of salt.

reaching for the spoon, you carefully sprinkle the salt amongst the other bowl filled with purified water. more of the psalm stumbles from your lips.

“the lord hath said: salt is good, but if you have—“

a voice interrupts the blessing of the water. “father. someone is here for confession.”

averting your gaze from your watery reflection, you find the voice of your interruption. it’s another priest but he is new to the parish. and quite capable of taking confession.

“i am busy, father girard. is there a reason you’ve come to me?”

“she is a woman.” he puffs his chest out as if he’s below taken the confession of the opposite gender.

sighing, you find yourself longing for the days your fellow clergymen paid your gender no mind. as the older generation passed, so did their free thinking. now at the parish you’ve resided since orphanage your devotion is tested by nonsensical men. men who are somehow absolved from taken the confession of a woman. as if our devotion is not upon the holy mother herself.

“very well. please finish blessing the water then.”

father girard curtly bows his head and swiftly finds him replacing your position. you hear him begin the psalm all over again. irritation boils in your veins but your feet carry you down the aisle—away from the temptation of violence. two confession booths are tucked away in the back corner of the church. a soft yellow light illuminates the lattice partition of the left booth.

sliding open your respective side of the confessional booth, you can only make out a large shadow through the partition. one of your hands presses flatly over your slicked back ponytail. attempting to rid the nerves that were threatening to overtake. father girad’s misogynistic indignation settled under your skin far more than you anticipated. releasing a steady breath of air, you mime the sign of the cross.

“how long has it been since your last confession, child?”

the shadow morphs and if you were paying attention you’d see the person shifting towards the partition. “when did they allow women into the clergy?”

ah. the usual question. your eyes remain on the rosary decorating your fingers. “special circumstances. it’s your turn to answer my question, child.”

“what was the question again?” a sly smile spreads on the confessor’s face.

“last confession.”

she reclines back on the wooden bench. “i dunno…a month ago?”

you nod your head and continue mindlessly reciting the hail mary in your mind. “very well. your heavenly father never scorns or denies a lost lamb. what’s on your mind?”

“i wouldn’t necessarily call myself a lost lamb. can’t you just call me by my name?”

your fingers stutter over one bead. you lose track of the prayer. “alright then. what is your name?”

“sevika. and what shall i call you? father? mother?” you can hear the shit eating grin in her words.

“mother is reserved for the mother superior.” you attempt a neutral tone. “i’m content with father, sevika. or will my gender prevent you from such respect?”

sevika barks out a laugh. you’re convinced you can feel the vibrations rattling the faux wooden sheet walls. your confessor settles her laughter with slap on her knee. “i like you, father. before i bear my sins—is your gender a hinderance to hear my symphony of sins? they’re not the typical sins.”

your fingers clutch tightly at your beads. “do not underestimate my penchant for acceptance. i am certain your sins will not shock me. our heavenly father has heard and seen everything. i am merely a vessel.”

“uh-huh. you from piltover or zaun?”

“what does it matter, sevika?”

sevika chuckles and shrugs. “indulge me. it’ll make me more trust you more.”

rolling your eyes, you cast a brief glance at the divider. “the und—sorry, zaun. not many orphans in piltover is there?”

“hm.” sevika takes a moment. your correction of the people’s named preference for city raised a lot more questions. “i suppose i can begin my confession then.”

a strained smile cracks and you nod. “very well. what brings you to confession, sevika?”

sevika taps her fingers on the ledge dividing the booth. “many things. i’m thinking of betraying someone close to me.”

the words hang in the air. silence adding weights on both your shoulders. betrayal in zaun usually means life or death. “i see. thinking of betrayal isn’t a sin though. and neither is betrayal. not necessarily.”

“ha. that’s a load of crack shit.” there’s a pause from sevika, a notable lighter flick then an exhale. “i could potentially get the poor sucker killed. isn’t that a sin?”

your eyes tick back and forth processing sevika’s words and sounds. “are you…smoking in my booth?” you posture turns more upright as the familiar smell of tobacco overwhelms. “please put that out.”

sevika scoffs and blows smoke through the partition. “but i just light it.”

she states it so matter of fact—you actually pause and re-consider your command. “you are not allowed to smoke in the church. please put it out, sevika.”

“i like when you say my name, priest-y. okay, fine.” sevika inhales her last puff then intentionally presses the light end in the direct center of a cross carved into the door. “better?”

you allow yourself the moment to close your eyes and deeply inhale. your brain recites a scripture regarding patience. “please continue with your confession.”

“well i’ve been so up in arms about what i’m supposed to do…i’ve been drinking more. staying out later to gamble. any money i win, well…i end up staggering into that lovely establishment babette runs.”

“are you ridden with guilt then? knowing your decision may get a man killed?”

sevika shrugs. “yeah, maybe.”

you massage a bead between your finger. “i see. and your vices…the alcohol, the gambling, the sex…is any of it fulfilling? any of it assuage your guilt?”

“obviously not if i’m coming to confession. so what is it then? ten hail marys?” sevika twiddles with the lighter—flipping it open and close. a warm flame glowing on her brown skin.

“i think that’s far too easy, sevika. confession is about penance in the end. absolving your sins. while all sins are equal—forgive me—you know better. don’t you?”

sevika’s jaw twitches with a tick of anger. despite the reality of your words, she cannot believe a priest is holding judgement. through gritted teeth sevika spits out, “i suppose i do, yes.”

you nod. “good. absolving sins, to me, means more than prayer. are your confessions always so short?”

“short?”

“yes, short. you’ve spent more time antagonizing me than confessing. you use confession differently than most parishioners. i’ve had confessions run for close to an hour. my point is…i do not think you are benefiting from in and out confession.”

sevika grumbles incoherently. she outstretches her fingers, interlacing them, before cracking her joints. realistically sevika could walk away. but when has she ever backed away from a challenge? “you want to hear every detail about my sins? fine. i knew you priests were perverts anyway.”

“sevika. please refrain from making generalizations. i am only here to help. if you are uninterested you are always free to leave.” for the first time since entering the booth, you peek at the shadow of sevika through the lattice partition. holding your breath wondering if she will leave.

the silence hangs heavy in the air. you’re almost convinced it will materialize. but then you hear a long sigh. the sigh sits on your skin — not sure what the implications mean.

“you priests are always so high and mighty. you think you know what’s best. you’re supposed to listen to my sins and let me do penance.” sevika’s irritation is clear as day. “so what if i’m a quick in and out? so what if your other confessors are high and mighty and ready to grovel to their virgin mary. they’re idiots for thinking she remained a virgin her entire life.”

you are accustomed to the blasphemy people tend to indulge in during confession. heck, you’ve listened to your fair share of nuns and priests confess perverted thoughts and some perverted actions. where there is a god there are does willingly or unwillingly defiant to his will. it has never bothered you. the mother, herself, is privileged to the thoughts running amuck in your mind.

your nails calculatedly tap on the wooden ledge. sevika shuffles uncomfortably in the bench—listening to your silence. you hum thoughtfully. “i also do not believe mary remained a virgin her entire life.”

“what?”

“what, what? what, as in, you did not hear me or what, as in, you are taken aback by my agreement?”

sevika releases an audible breath of annoyance. “i heard you. you agree with me? why?”

you shrug. you could divulge in a long explanation. “i am a free thinker despite a member of the clergy, sevika. i do not let the church dictate all of my thoughts. it seems unreasonable a married woman remained a virgin her entire life. catholicism, while not a fairly new religion, did not come about instantaneously once mary birthed jesus. and realistically…even if it did…one can assume mary’s life did not revolve around a religion.”

“you’re so…strange.” sevika laughs along with your words and nods. unintentional or not—you’ve lightened the mood for sevika.

“am i?” the question slips out without hesitation. it’s one filled of curiosity and intrigue. a small smile cracks on your lips.

sevika laughs again. “yes, very strange. but not in a bad way…yet. you here everyday, priesty?”

“for confession? indeed.” you want to tell sevika you’re obligated and forced to take the confessions of women now. you are not practically jumping at the idea. there’s other places your talents are needed. if you’re stuck in the church awaiting for female confessors or even pulled away from duties…no, it’s okay. the church saved you when the streets of piltover refused to. even if you believe you’ve repaid your debts—God’s sense of humor means you’re tested everyday.

“ah, perfect. i got some shit to do but i’ll be around. don’t miss me too much, priesty.”

“will you bother to ask for my last name, sevika?”

your confessor cackles once again. “not yet, father. i’m not interested in it. only your first name.”

your eyebrows knit together and you turn towards the partition. “meaning?”

“mm…you’ll figure it out soon enough. until next time, father.”

sevika slips out of the booth and you rise on your feet. it’s not frowned upon to see your confessors face—most of them attend mass anyway. as you push the flimsy door aside—you only catch a glimpse of sevika leaving. her tall frame, her defined and prominent muscles, and the setting sun reflecting off the metal of her prosthetic arm. she walks with a noteable swagger as if she’s packing something massive in those tight fitted pants.

before you’re caught lusting ,watching, you walk the opposite direction. your heart pounds viciously in your chest. two temptations a mere 30 minutes apart. you mutter, “father…please give me the strength.”

taglist: @sevikaslatinawife , @ruelezz

[pennyellee]

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, manipulation, deception, mention of attempted suicide, miscarriage, the sacred letter opener, mention of a gun, mind distortion, hallucinations, decapitated finger, graphic content, distortion between imagination and reality.

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 3,5K

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, forbidden medical procedures, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

keep in mind - I'm not an expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.

author's note: will be at the very end! please read.

m.list 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 - 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨 - 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

summer 1942

The wind carried the scent of summer rain, thick and heavy, like the monsoons she once watched from behind lattice windows. Y/N sat by the harbor, watching the lights flicker along the water, her hands resting idly in her lap. A freedom she had fought for, bled for, manipulated for, lied for, stretched out before her in the hum of the city. And yet, it did not feel like victory. Not entirely. Not until she healed from all the demons he summoned in her.

She might not have succeeded. There was always the possibility. For that, everytime she woke up, her mind repeated the same words all over again. Nightmare. It was just a nightmare. Not a reality. Yet she cannot live peacefully, not until he is somewhere out there, still looking for her. Last time she heard, he proclaimed whether she is to be found by anybody, they will be rewarded graciously. Elevating the search to different merit. But he would not find her. She kept saying that as her daily mantra, as believing was easier than knowing just how close he might be to discovering her everyday. He cannot. The darkest place on earth is under the lamp in the end. To run her whole life until he gave up, which he would never do, was not an option. Someone would eventually see her and that would lead to her doom. But, let us put things in the correct order for once. 

She would have to lie, if she said that her freedom was self-earned. Since the birth of civilisation, noone ever did something of such merit alone, woman and a man entre holy matrimonial bond, consumate their marriage, sire children, who hopefully grew to adolescence, enter their own matrimonial bonds, multiply and so on so forth until there are several generations of a clan. All sparked just so they are not alone in this vast dark world. Similarly to the raven and dove and the generations before them. Said operation takes discipline that Yoongi lacked, but Dove possessed, even though it seemed opposite at times. Thus, she extorted the madness in her soul and used it to its brink, although not entirely without an aid of terrestrial and above higher powers.

Her heart clenched when she ran through the crowd towards the tighter alleys, praying to God to grant her this wish, straight towards the waiting car. She could still turn around and run for the bridge to Chosen hotel, let herself be found, say she could not find him in the chaos of the crowd, because that is where he would expect her to go when they were not so forcefully separated. But she had decided long before that, so even when the cold crept to her bones, oddly resembling the long long time ago when she ran from her motherland, yet she had nothing but determination.

It took a long time to orchestrate but she had nothing but herself and her thoughts, but it was as if the Lord himself has laid a path under her feet to walk on. Thus, a series of events altered the concluding sequence of her reign as the third Buin of Min clan rather naturally. Unless, there was nothing natural about it. After all, who can endure and bury the hatred for such a long period of time and puppeteer on that man's arm while quietly counting her days. What kind of a woman can do that? One in a rage. Vengeful one. Angry one. Broken one. Choose what you wish.

But Y/N long stopped hating him. She did not hate him. She only hated what he made her do. Who she had to become to get away. And this realisation came along the healing once she found love. Within her.

She wanted him to feel the pain she had when he took her soul peace by peace because she was very much aware that she is the core of his own being. His muse. His purpose. His peace. His havoc. His demise. His doom.

He was the one who presented himself to be in God's favour. How their union is thy Lord's will. Albeit, it was she who was in his favour. Especially when the most devoted brother of his betrayed his own kin.

He helped her. He could have stopped her that day. He could have run her down if he wanted. He had known anyway. And yet, he let her go. He might have been loyal to his brother, but he knew she needed to go. The memory clung to her, a weight she could not shake. His face portrayed a one of hurt when he realised she was not running to hide from the gunshots but towards them, that one of losing a friend. The same one he had when he found her in the ambulation, with Xiaoli's and Seokjin’s wife's medical files. He knew that was the moment they lost her. For good.

"Give me your coat and purse." And she had given him the ring too, what he planned to do with it, she did not have to know. All she needed was to-

"Go," he had said, the word barely a breath. "Now."

Hoseok had let her go.

She mouthed a little broken "thank you" and had not hesitated since. She had not. Because if she had, she would not have left. He had known anyway. But he himself rather lived in the belief that she had taken the road. Believing was easier than knowing. Something that she will tell the generations after her, if there will be anyone to tell the tale. Ever.

Y/N exhaled, leaning her head against the bench, letting the late evening hold her secrets. The world thought she had been kidnapped which was easy to plant when Luen Hanyu implied the idea into the Kkangpae's mind at her father's funeral. Of course, something had to transpire at the funeral that slipped Yoongi's attention.

Luen Hanyu was the next in line after his father and an older brother to Doctor Luen Min-ho. A figure she never spoke of. Never dared to acknowledge their existence in front of Yoongi. In front of anybody, there was no existing string tied between them. She tried to do the same for Chen, however, that was an unfortunate event she did not plan for and did not expect to happen at all. First love never dies. But Chen had not been her first love. Luen Min-ho, not a doctor at the time they first met, was her first love. Her green-eyed boy with dark hair she kissed under the cherry blossom tree. Reunited once she stepped on the academia soil. The youngest Luen son had given her the key to her survival back than and is still outstretching a helping hand. A name she could use. A passage through their territory in the north, first when she ran from her father, and second from her husband. She had erased every trace of how she had crossed through their territory in 1938 when she ran from China.  The only loose thread was her late father. And now he was not among the living anymore. Killing him had been a salvation. His death had been the closing of one door, the unlocking of another. Yoongi, unfortunately, admired her for both.

"I'm pulling you out of here, Y/N."

"Not yet." She said to Min-ho at the funeral, her husband was occupied, distracted. She had never met Min-ho, nor any of the Luens, that is what they believed, thus there was no reason to be cautious when he walked her way, trying to hide a smile, the same one he had each time they met at the university labs, and express his sincerest condolences.

"But be ready."

His face had the same smile when she reached the car, hidden in a corner alley, gunshots resonating in the distant square in front of the government building. In different circumstances, she would fall for him all over again. Yet, she cannot.

She had spent some time, tucked away in Luen's safe house, and only after Yoongi actively started to engage in destroying the Luens, as he drew himself mad to believe she could not run away but be taken from him, she relocated. Otherwise he would have found her by now. That is what he delusionally believed. The easier option. To believe. Apparently, he was drowning in the delusion and even Kim Namjoon could not save the day with his cleverness anymore. She wonders whether he told him about the deal he had not even the slightest intention to uphold. The Min empire, however, kept standing. Good. This was only ever about his misery and even if she boldly said to his face that he only ever loved his clan, she knew that would never hurt him, as he fell too deep, too hard, for her. Fuck his empire. It can flourish for all she cares, as long as she is no longer part of it.  

It was a well-placed rumor that had reached Yoongi's ears, twisting the truth just enough to send him into another clan war. Distract him from running to find her. As if he did not search half the continent and the other. She had known, from the moment she stepped into his world, that there was only one way out. To make him feel what she felt. To make him lose something that could never be replaced. He would look for her everywhere, but not close. He would search in Europe, in China, in Japan, even in America, in places far removed from the life she had led. But never here. Never as close to the ghosts they had both created.

She had done everything she needed to survive. And she had done everything she needed to make him suffer. But freedom had come at a cost. And she had paid it in full. With her mind. The sleepless nights were never farce, the frenzied pacing, the sensation that her body was still trapped even when she had been miles away. She had won. She had lost. She was free. But she was caged by a memory. 

After all, what woman would slit her own throat, with a precise cut that will draw the blood but won't touch her windpipe, nor a cut that would be too deep to not stitch, to hurt him like he hurt her. What woman would kill her own father, what sane woman would manipulate a master manipulator that Yoongi was and is. What woman would agree to carry a child of that monster? What woman would starve herself to later appear to gain weight. What woman would falsify pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage. She. The answer is she.

Timing was beyond being crucial. Her own mother and brother were at stake and she could not leave them behind. She bargained with him to send them to Maryland, where she had bargained to send her cousins before. She had waited. She had waited for the right moment. Until he sent her mother and brother to America, believing they would be safer there, away from the chaos of everything that surrounded them. 

He demanded a child in exchange. Greedy bastard.

Xiaoli was too far gone. And unless she found a way to mend unmendable, she could be of no help to her. But she was safe as Taehyung's wife. Now, as Min-ho said at their last encounter, a very pregnant wife.

Daiyu had known. The moment they stepped onto American soil, they had disappeared from the radar. It had been planned long before, long before Y/N ever made her move. Daiyu had understood what needed to be done. Once they were in, they vanished. No contact. No trace. The final chain tying Y/N to her past was severed. They will live. Away from all her sins.

But, to intrigue you further, pretending to be pregnant was the easiest in comparison to the miscarriage she had to act. Xiaoli unwillingly outed her and she never thanked her sister for anything but that. It opened another path. Complicated one, but worth taking. There is no way Min Yoongi would let his pregnant woman run for the hills so easily, nor as she expected leave the safety of sanctuary. But the pregnancy was needed in order to broker the deal between them. And she had absolutely zero intention of getting pregnant.

The beginning of the war was supposed to be her salvation, more of a doom in the end, as he was determined that his pregnant wife was too fragile to see the world in shambles. Thus, she needed to sin even more.

She had planted the idea with precision, knowing how gossip would weave its way through the hanok like smoke, so it is not like Yoongi would doubt if others noticed too. The maids whispered about how she moved slower, how she touched her stomach absentmindedly, how she refused wine one evening with a quiet smile, how she gained weight. Eating meals repeatedly, eating meals that made her bloat to imitate the little swell of her belly, enough that they noticed. But she never uttered the words herself. 

No "I am with a child" ever curled on her tongue.

Note that, and that is a technicality she thought through. Yoongi never questioned it. He was overjoyed. He forgot, he forgave, he never thought to demand proof. His love, his obsession, blinded him.

Faking the miscarriage had been trickier. She had stolen the transfusion blood from the infirmary, Seokjin would not notice, it was her job to keep the tabs. Hiding the vials beneath the floorboards in their room, rationing them until the moment came.

The day she decided it was time to elevate the narrative, she made sure the pain in her voice was raw, real, laced with panic. When he had come running, the blood already spilled, staining the sheets and huddling them to look like a tiny bundle stained with blood. He never looked. He never peeled back the layers to see the deception. He held her, murmured reassurances, swore he would never leave her side. And she had let him, pressing her face into his shoulder, whispering apologies she never meant.

She gave him something that is never supposed to die. Hope. And when it was time, she stung the knife deep and ran.

Singapore had been peaceful. A city where no one knew her name, as this was Luens' extended territory even the Mins could not reach, as noone knew whose power extends here. She moved through the crowded streets as just another young woman with no past. She had found a small apartment, modest but safe, above a tailor's shop owned by an elderly couple who never asked questions. She worked quietly over the years after she finished her studies in London rather quickly. The war needed physicians, even women if praise be. Now she was assisting at a local clinic where Min-ho had secured her a place. Under a false name, of course. Falsified documents. She never spoke too much, never shared too much. Silence had become her greatest defense.

The quiet hum of a long shift still weighed on her as she walked home through the dimly lit streets, her nurse's uniform clinging to her skin from the humidity. The old man downstairs greeted her with a nod, handing her a brown paper-wrapped package, held with a string, a little dove painted in the right corner.

"Another one from your friend, Doctor" he murmured, giving her a smile that did not reach his eyes. She bowed down to thank him and scurried up the stairs to her apartment. The love she felt for Min-ho was different. Not romantic to be correct, but one of respect, gratitude even. But her mind was far gone to be with him. She could not anyway. He was a man of a name, and she… she was a renegade now.

She carried it upstairs, expecting another book or vinyl from Min-ho. Standing by the small table she had the gramophone stationed at, she cut the string with a letter opener and unwrapped it, revealing, what she predicted to be a vinyl. She placed it on the player, waiting for the needle to catch. Placing the box sideways, she gasped, looking at her bloodied hand. Did she cut herself? Confused, she glanced back into the package, lifting it to see it soaked in one corner where she was previously holding it. Her mind too tired to notice. She lowered it to throw the papers that surrounded the vinyl out, halting when the gramophone started to resonate through the sound horn, a melody, or more a cacophony she wished to never hear again.

Horror gripping her throat. No, this is just a coincidence. Min-ho has no means to know what this song means to her. That it echoed in her head each time she witnessed the resurrection of the evil Kkangpae Min Yoongi was. He never actually considered she could get away on her own. But he wanted her to know that there is nowhere to go. And she wanted to prove him wrong.

Very slowly, she glanced down to see what was under the crunched papers. Letting the box fall with a loud thud to the floor, pressing her hand to hide the shriek she let out upon seeing the decapitated hand inside, one of its fingers wrapped with a gold ring that had Luen's insignia, one of a deer. No.

This must be just her imagination, hallucination even. She must be having a lucid dream, as she often had them since her departure. Nightmares. Real ones this time, not the Greek tragedy she performed in front of Yoongi so later in her narrative he thinks she has healed.

Soft footsteps. Measured, unhurried, deliberate. The sound of leather soles against the wooden floor, moving with a certainty that sent ice through her veins. Closer. And closer. Did they underestimate Yoongi's reach, or was there an internal betrayal? They protected her. Just what made Min-ho slip down. Or is this even Min-ho’s hand? Did they torture him? He never became her lover just like she used to dream about back in the day. She understood that loving him would make her vulnerable, but the friendship they nurtured made her realise just how lucky she was that he felt all the same to help her get out of there. This must me a hallucination.

Her breath hitched. She did not need to turn around. She did not want to admit her defeat. You must understand that she was always ready to defend herself, to flee when needed, as she never made the mistake of underestimating him, just like he did underestimate her. To fight she was ready for. He already has one large scar, what is one more? Did he want to toy with her? Could he have attacked her sooner?

"There you are."

This must be a dream. She will not accept this as her reality anymore. Yet, her breath hitched upon hearing the baritone voice. In a single, fluid motion, her fingers brushed against her thigh to pull out the letter opener, from the pocket of her uniform. She spun, the blade slicing through the air—a desperate attempt.

It embedded itself in the wooden door frame, just inches from his head. Her aim was always perfect how come she missed now? Was he even there to be aimed at?

He did not even flinch. He simply smiled, just as wickedly as she remembered, tilting his head, to glance at the blade that she grew fond of as it seems. Twisted sentiment.

Only if she had a split of a second to open the desk's drawer to pull out the small revolver, if only. No. He was too close, he would catch her faster than a lightning would strike.

But if this is a dream she could reach it in time right?

And in the blink of an eye, she is back—trapped once more in the hanok of nightmares, where shadows breathe and the past refuses to sleep, screaming for her to wake up.

His hair was shorter now, the unruly waves tamed, though strands still fell over his forehead. A scar cut across his eye was just as she remembered. His black leather coat hung unbuttoned at his broad shoulders. Yet, he is all the same in her mind.

‘Get out of my head. Get out!’ she cries, but the words splinter in the air, swallowed by the very darkness that lurks within her.

The voice calls out once more, and the fabric of reality trembles—its borders blurred, its edges unravelling. She no longer knows where the nightmare ends and the waking world begins. A wound that never healed. Lacrimosa.

"I've been looking for you, Dove."

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝

©pennyellee. please do not repost

final author's note: my dear dark romance fairies, allow me to utter some last words before you'll descend me to hell if you possibly misunderstand. Lacrimosa was never meant to give you answers. Only possibilities. I wrote this story with one foot in the dark and one in the light, where the line between reality and nightmare stays blurred. A narrative that is unreliable. This story was never meant to deliver a neat ending wrapped in clarity—it was written to leave space, a pause between breaths, where you decide what lingers in the dark and what was merely imagined in the quiet between heartbeats. To not be sure if the story truly ended. Thank you for walking beside her my fairies. For staying through the silence, the sorrow, the unravelling.

Is this the reality she wakes to, or the nightmare she never escaped? Was it all a dream? A descent? A warning? That, my dear readers, is yours to decide.

Let her fate rest in your hands. And maybe, just maybe—she’ll find peace in whichever version you choose.

So close the final page gently. And if she’s still dreaming… maybe don’t wake her just yet.

Special thanks to @chaoticpuff17 who is not only brilliant beta reader but a dear friend of mine. Your insight, intuition, and unwavering honesty helped shape the bones of this story and for that I am so so grateful, endlessly.

Special thanks to all of you who stayed till the very end and to you who will just descend to hear the music reverberating through the dimly-lit streets. To see the tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

lots of love, p.

tag list: @beautifulcloudfestival - @honsoolgloss - @jingerbreadoutofstock - @moscow778 - @januara26 - @floooring- @yoongislatinagff - @xyahrinx - @hi12345567- @nochuel - @deltamoon666 - @bbkissme99 - @darkuni63 - @nansasa - @sazsazsaz - @strxwbloody - @royallyjjkk - @jaiuneamesolitaiire - @shadowyjellyfishfest - @bbgniecyy - @elayne321 - @seojunandsoju - @bun-27 - @whipwhoops - @wobblewobble822 - @whofan88 - @haneybunny - @lostgirlinthewoodss - @secfir - @btspurplesky - @elleflying07 - @pamzn - @megseungmin - @selenophileforlife - @idkjustlovingbts - @seonghwaexile - @catlove83

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Synopsis: Sunday is your mirror, as you are his — or, how meeting him spells your doom, just like losing you spells his.

HSR Masterlist

Pairing: Sunday x Reader

Word Count: 7.2k

Content Warnings: female reader, second person in some parts and third person sunday pov in others, religious themes because…it’s sunday…, not canon compliant because idk wtf happened in penacony and i don’t feel like figuring it out, not lore compliant either because i’m #toocool for that, ooc because i wanted to make sunday a freak, major character death but not really on screen just mentioned/implied, unreliable narrators, halovians are Very Different (both from their canon depictions and from humans in general), robin mentioned but she’s also probs ooc idfk i’ve never written for honkai star rail and i’ve played for like a month tops, sunday is a d1 piner, sunday loses it, sunday crashes out, weird narrative structure, very nonsensical, in terms of endings we have no endings (it’s like open to interpretation ig), m1ckeyb3rry’s monthly drop of MID

A/N: i wrote this really quickly for my beloved illu’s birthday!! unfortunately i didn’t get the idea until like two days after the date itself so it’s a bit late LMAOO also it sucks but. it has SUNDAY !! my first foray into the hsr verse…hehe…anyways illu i could go on about how much i appreciate you and how glad i am that we’re friends but for the sake of conciseness i shall leave it at HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY GOAT @milksnake-tea I LOOK FORWARD TO ANOTHER YEAR OF CRASHING OUT TOGETHER 🙂‍↕️💖 LOVE AND KISSES I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS A BIT!!!

There is a ghost waiting for him in the confessional booth. Velvet curtains cover the latticed wood, obscuring its contents from his view, but the effect comes to nothing. He knows she’s there, he always does, he can feel her presence. It’s a chill seeping into his bones as he kneels — he doesn’t need to kneel, of course he doesn’t need to, but it’s a habit he’s yet unwilling to break — and clasps his hands together. It’s a supplication for something, but it isn’t until his mouth is opening of its own volition, his wings fluttering in alarm and his eyes widening as the words are wrenched from his lips, that he realizes what he’s begging for.

“Please,” he whispers. His voice echoes in the empty room, mocking him, teasing him. Please. Please. What right does he have to ask her anything? He’s sure that’s what she’s thinking. He’s sure she’s laughing in that odd way of hers, and his throat constricts at the image. “Please—”

Forgive me? It reverberates in his mind, that fragment of a thought, jagged at the edges, sharp like a blade and twice as cruel. Isn’t that it? Forgive me. Forgive me. Please, forgive me. 

“Condemn me,” he says instead, and then he’s struck by a burst of anger, hot and unyielding and entirely at odds with the weight of his tongue in his mouth, which is all leaden and unwieldy and clumsy and despicable. “Condemn me or forgive me or what have you!”

He waits, as he always does. One, two, three. He counts on his fingers, an invisible metronome ticking in his mind, mechanical and perfect in rhythm, keeping time for his vigil. Four, five, six. The curtain flutters in a phantom breeze, and for a second he can pretend that he sees a flash of bright in the darkness of the booth, a dancing shade like a glittering iris peering back at him. Seven, eight, nine. He doesn’t care what she says. He doesn’t care about any of it. As long as she says something, it’s fine. Condemn me. Forgive me. He’s not sure which he would prefer at this point.

Ten.

The ghost is silent.

The first time you met Sunday, it was raining. Everything about him was limp in the storm — his clothes, the fabric clinging to his slender frame; his hair, spilling onto his pale brow and trailing down his mannequin-straight back; even his wings, which drooped miserably towards his shoulders, the preened feathers translucent at the edges from dampness. 

When he turned to glance at you, you expected his demeanor to shimmer with the famous benevolence of his family. Sunday Oak, the heir, the young lord; certainly there would be a kindness to him, a gentleness permeating throughout the very essence of his being. Certainly he had been born a saint, anointed in the waters of his mother’s womb before he could even draw breath, incapable of humanity’s many shortcomings and fallacies. Certainly these things were true, and that was why it frightened you all the more when, for one singular moment, his impassive mien crumpled into a glare, as baleful as it was captivating.

His eyes were a sharp, canny gold, feline in both shape and shrewdness, framed by lashes clumped together with wet. They were terrible in the way of a dying star, that peculiar brand of horror so beautiful that it was impossible to look away, and indeed you stood transfixed until he cleared his throat and arranged his face into a polite smile. 

“I wasn’t aware we had visitors today,” he said. He spoke carefully, perfunctorily, reading from a script he must’ve memorized long ago. You stiffened, for although he had not given you any reason to think it, you were suddenly very certain that you were not supposed to see him like this, his fingers curling over the slick rail of his balcony, his dark abdominal wings folded tightly over his stomach and his halo dull in whatever light struggled through the clouded sky.

“I was just leaving,” you said. “I must have made a wrong turn. I apologize for disturbing you, sir.”

“You needn’t apologize,” he said, and there he was, the man who you had expected: Sunday, the scion of the Oak Family. Gracious Sunday; magnanimous Sunday; Sunday the prince and Sunday the saint. He was so finely constructed it made you wince, his blinding delicacy and keen refinement eerie, preternatural. A baser instinct of yours told you to run, reminding you of a time when those of his kind ruled over humanity with impunity, pleading with you to save yourself before it was too late.

You bit back your fear so hard that blood exploded over your palate, salty and sweet in turn, viscous as you swallowed it back and offered him a smile. He did not return it in full, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. That should’ve been soothing, but it only served to worsen the electric anxiety running through your veins.

“I shall call my sister and tell her to fetch you,” he said. “I would hate for you to find the Oaks remiss in our hospitality. I am sincerely sorry that you were not given an escort earlier.”

There were so many things you could say to him. I ran. Does that make me remiss? I’m the one who ran from them. You could reassure him, promise him that you would be alright on your own and there was no need for Robin to come. You could do any of these things, yet you were frozen like an insect in the amber of his stare, and so you did not.

“Thank you,” you said, bowing slightly, lowering your eyes to his leather shoes in a valiant attempt to free yourself, “for your generosity.”

“Do you think it’s possible for people to forgive themselves?” he asks his sister. They’re sitting in the parlor, porcelain teacups in their hands, pinkie fingers raised primly in the air. His sister’s cup is chipped at the base, but every time he tries to throw it away, she pitches a fit, which is so uncharacteristic of her that it renders him speechless. This one is special, she insists. There’s doves painted on it. See?

It isn’t special, there’s countless others exactly like it, but he caves to her whims far too easily, as he always does. He’s prone to it, after all; she wants for things so rarely as it is, which means denying her few requests when she makes them is nigh-impossible. So he allows her to keep the ruined cup, on the condition that in his presence, she holds it in her left hand, for he never wants to see the blemish again.

“I’m not sure,” she says. Her voice is always dreamy, but as of late there’s been a tangible sadness to it. He’s asked her what’s troubling her countless times, but his every attempt is met with a shake of her head and a solemn oath that it’s nothing. “Maybe.”

“I don’t think that it is,” he says. “At least not at first. You can’t forgive yourself before you’re forgiven by anyone else.”

“If you were already so sure of the answer, brother,” she says, cocking her head at him, “then why did you ask?”

“Hm?” he says, furrowing his brow. She takes a sip of her tea, and maybe it’s the angle or maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he swears that that dammed chip is taunting him, smarting like a peeled-off scab.

“It’s a strange practice of yours,” his sister says, batting her eyes at him in a way that makes him feel shrunken and tiny, as if she knows everything and he knows nothing, although by all rights it’s the other way around.

“What do you mean by that?” he presses, voice coming out harsher than he’d like. Cringing, he sets his teacup down and folds his hands in his lap. “My apologies, sister. I — I did not mean to speak to you in that way.”

She raises her drink to her lips, smiling at him over the dove-painted rim, and says nothing more.

Robin Oak was like nightshade, the most beautiful flower you had ever seen and, incidentally, the most poisonous. She was lilac where Sunday was silver and sapphire where he was gold, but although the edges of her halo and her face were rounder than her brother’s, as malleable as he was rigid, she was no softer than he. Perhaps she was even colder for it, all the more deadly, unassuming and quiet, poised to strike with a warbling song and a tittering giggle.

“Hello,” she said, and although the two of you were ostensibly having a normal conversation, she still talked like there was a song in her voice, her cadence lyrical and amused. “We’ve been looking for you for a while.”

“I didn’t go very far,” you said, following after her as she navigated the hallways without hesitation.

“Of course not,” she agreed. “But who would’ve thought you’d end up in Sunday’s room?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, cheeks heating up at the sly implication. “I sincerely thought I had happened upon some study or restroom where I might recuperate.”

“He does keep his surroundings austere,” she said. “I’ve tried to convince him to hang up paintings or photographs, but he refuses. He’s like that.”

“I see,” you said, as neutrally as possible. Robin must’ve sensed your disinterest, for with a soft, breathy, chuckle, she steered the conversation away from her brother and to another subject entirely.

“Ah, you mentioned recuperation? Do parties tire you, too?” she said, and maybe it was manipulation or maybe it was genuine kindness, but it disarmed you all the same. Bashfully, you nodded, your shoulders hunching in on themselves involuntarily as you continued down the corridor.

“They are exhausting. I can never handle them for more than a few minutes at a time,” you confessed. She wrapped an arm around your torso, a companionable vice of a grip, and although you shouldn’t have been, you were surprised to feel that her skin was blazing to the touch.

“Nor can I,” she said. “There’s a commonality. Let’s be friends.”

It was a command, not a request. You knew better than to believe that Robin Oak would request anything; the world was at her feet, the universe shifting so that her words became truth, so why would she bother with questions and hesitance the way the rest of you did? She was no more human than Sunday. She was even less, only just as good at pretending, at painting on a doll-like mask to disguise her lies.

“Well, then it is a pleasure to be your friend,” you said.

“Don’t talk like that,” she protested.

“Like what?” you said.

“Like I’m somebody important, or like I have a status worthy of only the highest respect,” she said.

“But you do,” you said. She nudged you in the side with some measure of eagerness.

“No, no, forget about that,” she said. “I’m just like you, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, even though that could not be further from the truth, even though she could not be further from you.

“I swear on truth,” he says to the congregation, the beige churchgoers in their beige robes with adoration sparkling in their devoted eyes. “I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on—”

A chill rushes down his spine, icy fingers grabbing onto the roots of his wings and yanking. He hisses under his breath, prayers of rebuke and protection, nails digging into his palms as he chants furiously, lips moving too fast for the gatherers to understand what he is doing.

Anxious murmurs arise like the songs of a choir the longer and longer he is frozen. Somebody coughs. A child whines audibly. He continues his chanting. 

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came. I swear on truth, I swear on the calendar, I swear on words, I swear on values, I swear on rules, I swear on meaning, I swear on—

The hair by the nape of his neck is ruffled, and then the sensation vanishes and he is left alone once more. He is grateful for only a moment before he mourns her absence with a sudden savagery that takes even himself by surprise. It’s a contradiction, but she is a contradiction, so it’s fitting. He could never understand her before, so why should it be different now?

Clearing his throat and subtly adjusting his lapels, he raises his hands to silence the throngs of worshippers. They do his bidding at once, and he closes his eyes so that he does not have to see their naïveté at this final part, so that he is speaking to himself and the ghost alone — because nobody else matters in the end.

“I swear,” he says, his heart beating faster and faster until it is almost bursting from his chest and pounding in his skull, “on human dignity.”

What do Halovians know of human dignity?

“Nothing,” he says, responding to the unasked question as he turns away from the others, away from their applause and their grins. His wings cover his eyes and his hands cover his ears as he leaves the cavernous hall, the thunder of laudation fading and fading, replaced with nothing but a whistling, lonely emptiness. “They know nothing.”

He pauses, his eyes darting around surreptitiously. Then, when he is sure he is alone, he continues, under his breath so that no one can hear even if they try very hard to.

“I know nothing.”

He is sure of this much, at least.

On Halovians:

They abide by a so-called “divine creed” which they refuse to divulge to outsiders. However, they maintain that if they break these secretive laws, they are punished severely in what amounts to a foreshortened process of decay. Their holiness and altruism is, thus, not a choice but a compulsion; the one sin they are permitted is lying, and many will spin tall tales as a form of indulgence.

They are comparable in ability to the sirens from Lucyke — indeed, many researchers believe the species share a common ancestor and are one of many examples of divergent evolution found throughout the cosmos. They are nonthreatening when approached, capable of rational thought and intelligent speech, and have advanced societies with defined familial structures; hence, they are classified as a Level 0 Intelligent Species.

His halo is cracking. He doesn’t know when it began, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he doesn’t want to know, but regardless it’s happening. The burnished gold, once a plain, gleaming expanse, is now marred by thin, unmistakeable fissures in the shape of spiderwebs. At first, he can only stare at his reflection in abject horror, but then he’s stuffing his fist in his mouth and screaming. 

What will people think? When they see it, they will know what he has done. It’s tainting him. It’s above him and behind him and all around and he can’t escape, he can’t do anything, his halo is cracking and he’s screaming and she’s there again.

“Stop it,” he snaps. “Stop coming back. If you’re only here to torment me, then — then stop it!”

Is she laughing? She must be. She always laughs at him, always finds him so curious. An oddity. A Halovian. He’s not like her, she’s fond of reminding him, he’s different. He’s born for the Harmony and the sky. He’s born for a purpose greater than hers, with black wings and a bright halo and a tongue made to lie.

“Don’t leave,” he says when she begins to withdraw. “Hey. Hey. Don’t leave — don’t leave me — I can’t — don’t!”

Her absence is like a hole carved into his stomach daily anew, and if his wings weren’t losing their feathers so rapidly, he’d fold them over the gaping wound in an attempt to disguise it, to transform it, to hold himself together until he can once again become whole in earnest.

It’s pitiful. He’s pitiful. He longs for a ghost who he despises, a ghost of his own making, a ghost who is pulling apart his halo and his wings and his sanity alike. She is ruining him and he is powerless to stop her; somewhere deep inside of him, he’s not sure if he even wants to. This is what he’s owed. This is what he deserves. No matter how much he begs, she will not forgive him; no matter how much he prays, he will not forgive himself.

This time when he screams, he does not bother with muffling it.

You were certain that, in the pools of her mind, in places unknowable and unreachable, Robin believed that she loved you. She repeated that lie so often that she fooled everyone, even herself — everyone, of course, but you. You knew the truth. You knew that she never had, that she never would, that she never could.

“This is my very best friend in the entire universe,” she’d say, holding your palm against her heart. “I love her.”

She carried it like a trophy or a weapon, that meaningless phrase. I love her. Lilac instead of silver. Sapphire instead of gold. I am not a Halovian. That was what she really wanted to say. That was what you really meant to her. I am human, too. Treat me like I am human. Talk to me like I am human. Love me like I am human.

I am human.

I am human.

His sister is worrying about him. He wishes he could allay her concerns like he always does, wishes he could promise that it’s nothing, that he’s fine, but whenever he tries, he can’t. It sticks in his throat, and he’s left to stare at her miserably, helplessly.

“If you need anything…” she murmurs, voice trailing off into nothingness as she pretends like she’s not looking at his halo, which is on the verge of collapse, or at his wings, which are approaching a skeletal state. “Maybe you should stay home today. Someone else can pray.”

“No,” he says. He has to do it. If he doesn’t, then he has nothing left — which is the truth, really, but he can’t accept it. Not yet. “No, I—”

He wants to say I can do it, but the words won’t come. She waits, but when he does not finish his sentence, she only sighs and nods.

“If you think that’s what’s best,” she says. If she’s expecting a response, she won’t get one, or at least not one that’ll satisfy them both. He can’t maintain his facade anymore. Those carefully constructed falsehoods which were once his birthright have abandoned him; now, he is left with nothing but the truth in its harshest form, his eyes sewn open to it and his wings tied back so he can no longer cower behind their trembling defense.

Unlike his sister, Sunday never pretended to love you. Indeed, he treated you no differently than he treated everyone else, keeping a polite, reserved distance between the two of you at all times. He was kind when you spoke, though he tended to avoid such occasions, and he took great pains to ensure that he appeared as harmless as possible, pulling his wings close to his body, averting his eyes from yours and shifting so that his halo was always partially obscured.

Robin told you that he was a proud man, so the fact that he shied away before you meant something. I’ve never seen him like this, she would ponder when he would sidle past, his feathers blending in with his pale hair, a coat thrown over his shoulders and his gaze trained directly ahead even when he greeted you. It’s unlike him.

It’s kind. That was all you ever said when she prodded at you for answers. He’s being kind to me.

Unlike her brother, Robin didn’t understand what that meant, so she would only embrace you, deceptively strong despite her frail figure, wings extending to skim along your skin in what she must’ve considered a sign of affection.

I’m glad you’re getting along, she’d say, and then you’d wonder, invariably, what it’d take to break the chords of her speech. Was she capable of producing dissonance? Or was it one of her many blessings, that avoidance of discord, of cacophony? I’m really glad. I hope one day he loves you, too.

She never asked you to love him back. She never dared to even hope for it.

“I can’t recall you ever laughing at me this much when you were alive,” he says, lying on his bed with his limbs splayed out. He’s looking up at the ceiling, which is bare, as are the walls, and the furniture — entirely by design, of course. Periodically, his wings will flap weakly, wracked with nervous tremors as he waits for her to quiet.

He doesn’t reprimand her anymore. The prospect of chasing her away is unbearable, even more unbearable than the sound of her mirth, which is as wrong to his ears as music from an untuned piano. So he ignores it, and when it is particularly agonizing, he speaks to the empty air, saying everything and nothing all at once in an attempt to silence her.

“You would ask me questions,” he remembers, drumming his fingers against the mattress. “But you wouldn’t laugh. I don’t think you found me amusing, unless I tried very hard to appear that way. I was better at it back then. At becoming what people expected of me.”

She’s not laughing anymore, but he knows she hasn’t vanished yet. She’s there in his periphery, poised to disappear as soon as he turns his head but there nonetheless. Taking advantage of the rare silence, he sits up, hugging his knees to his chest and closing his eyes.

“I didn’t pretend quite as much when it was you,” he says. “You know that, right? By the end, I couldn’t bring myself to at all.”

Does she believe him? He can’t tell. If he were her, he wouldn’t believe himself, so likely not. Exhaling heavily, he collapses backwards, tangling himself into a pile of blankets that he pulls over his shoulders.

“I should have lied to you more often,” he says, eyes drifting shut. “Maybe things would be different if I had.”

 On Halovians:

Halovians are the only Level 0 Intelligent Species that do not choose long-term mates, although there is evidence to suggest that in the distant past, they remained with the same partner for life. According to legend, this is because they gave up fidelity for falsehood, trading their ability to love eternally for their freedom to lie at will.

Research disagrees with this old story, and many alternate theories have been proposed. The most common and widely-accepted is the claim that the Halovians once faced extinction and thus had to procreate at speed, leading to a permanent shift in their mating habits. The most substantial proof for this, of course, is the otherwise-inexplicable population boom…

You couldn’t say for certain when you began visiting Sunday in his room. It had happened so suddenly and yet so gradually that by the time you realized what you were doing, it was too late for you to stop. He never did anything untoward — you doubted he was capable of it — staying at his desk and scowling at his work while you wandered about, familiarizing yourself with the confines of the space.

“Why don’t you decorate?” you asked him one day.

“Decorations are only needless distractions,” he responded promptly, signing a paper with a flourish that, somehow, represented his name. Sunday Oak. You didn’t know how something so enormous and grand could be summed into two squiggles and a cross, but he seemed confident of it, so who were you to question the method? “I cannot fathom sleeping with such clutter surrounding me.”

“I see,” you said, and that was the end of it.

Your conversations with him typically went as such, endless games of question-and-answer, where you would ask whatever was on your mind and he would respond as truthfully as he was able. You often wondered when he would grow tired of it, of you, but he never did. You asked Robin why it was so, and she only shrugged enigmatically.

“Maybe he’s glad to be the one speaking for once,” she said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“You ought to ask him,” she said. “He might not tell anyone else, but if it’s you…if it’s you, then he’ll definitely answer.”

His sister’s hands are frigid on his shoulders. She’s warm by anyone else’s standards, but for a Halovian, she’s always been cold. Even when she was born, half the size she should’ve been and with eyes as boundless as the sky, she was freezing, a shivering slip of a baby shoved into his arms by his bleeding mother.

“Your halo is breaking,” she says to him, but she’s angry, her melodic voice wavering as her fingers dig into his muscle, shaking him back and forth. “It’s breaking. Why is it breaking?”

She’s glaring at him, tears welling at her lash-line. He wants to reach out his hand and wipe them away, but more will replace them in an instant, so what is the point? She shakes him again, harder and harder, and he allows her, because he’ll always allow her impulses, and because he’s never seen her like this before.

“Why?” she says. “Why is it breaking? Tell me what you did, brother, tell me what you did!”

She isn’t asking because she wants him to give her the answer. She’s asking because she wants him to deny it, to tell her that she’s wrong, that the conclusion she’s arrived at is incorrect somehow. Once, he could’ve. He could’ve made up some story about tragedy and misfortune, and she would’ve believed him, as she always did.

That was their relationship. He lied and she believed him. She asked and he obliged her. But now that he can not lie and she has nothing to ask for, what is left?  

“You know already,” he says. She gasps in the manner of an injured animal, berry-stained lips parting, indubitably to hurl accusations at him.

He doesn’t think he can handle hearing them, not from his sister of all people, so he leaves before he gets the chance.

“Does it feel strange when people touch your wings?” you said. Sunday was in his bed today, afflicted by some illness of the lungs, and you were rummaging through his bookshelf, pulling out volumes at random before putting them back where you had found them. 

“Huh? Why do you ask?” he said, raising a porcelain cup to his lips. It was prescription, a medicine reeking of menthol but wearing the guise of peppermint tea — the only way, according to Robin, that he would drink it. A servant had brought it and presented it to him with a bow, walking out of the room with a look thrown at you over their shoulder, concern and envy blending into something razor-thin and cutting.

“I don’t have any,” you explained, taking out a book and tracing your fingers along the gold lettering of the title. “I can’t fathom what it’d be like.”

“Come here,” he said, and although it was mildly done, you obeyed immediately. You could never forget what he was, not completely, no matter how hard he tried to make it so that you did. You would always be human and he would always be Halovian; this fundamental disconnect was insurmountable, and anyways, you had no interest in surmounting it. It’d serve you well to remember these many little differences between yourself and the Oak siblings, between yourself and Sunday in particular. 

He extended his hand, the palm facing up, and dipped his chin towards it. You tilted your head in confusion, for the act was all but inexplicable, and at this he smiled. He did not smile very frequently, and it transformed his face when he did, lighting it up, turning it into something close to human — not quite, but close. Closer than he ever was otherwise.

“Here,” he said, setting aside his teacup and using his other hand to place yours against his, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and then waiting. “Does that feel strange?”

“No,” you said. 

“It’s the same for me,” he said. “To you, my wings are bizarre and outlandish, but to me and those of my kind, they are simply another body part. No more or less fantastical than an arm or an ankle.”

“Ah,” you said. He settled back against the cushions of his bed, allowing the wings by his ears to stretch out comfortably, closing his eyes and letting out an exhale that shook with the remnants of a cough.

“You want to touch them,” he said. He phrased it as a statement, not a question, and when you paused before answering, his smile grew imperceptibly larger. “I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t?” you said. He shrugged.

“It’s only fair,” he said, pressing down on the point where your veins nearly surfaced, tapping in time with your pulse before drawing his hands back and clasping them together in the cavity below his ribcage. “I wouldn’t have told you you could if I’d hold any resentment for it.”

“Aren’t Halovians known for lying?” you said. He snorted.

“Have you been doing your research?” he said.

“It’s common knowledge,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But I swear I will always tell you the truth.”

“How can I believe that? What if that’s just another one of your lies?” you said. He cracked one eye open so that he could peek at you, and whatever he saw must’ve proven your seriousness, for he hummed in thought, carefully considering your words.

“I suppose you can’t,” he said. “It’s your prerogative. Do as you’d like, then.”

He closed his eyes again, which you supposed was his version of an invitation. Waiting until his breathing stilled and he was caught in some form of repose — whether he was truly unconscious or not escaped you, but either way he was certainly in some altered state of mind — you extended your arm and brushed your index finger against his feathers.

They were as soft as you had anticipated, cottony and shapeless compared to the firm flight-feathers of the pitch-dark wings jutting out at his sides. The bones were hollow and slight, as if you could break them only by taking them into your fist and squeezing. This was such a contradiction to the appearance he so carefully maintained that your heart softened to him despite your greatest efforts to guard it.

“Those ones are mostly down,” he said, startling you out of your daze. You had assumed he was asleep and had allowed your movements to become casual and complacent. Jerking your hand back as if he had burnt it — which he just as well might have, given the temperature of his body — you held it to your chest and took an involuntary step back while he adjusted himself in his nest of bedding. “In antiquity, back when we still ruled the skies and rarely touched the ground, it was considered a sign of friendship for Halovians to groom one another’s upper-wing feathers.”

“And now?” you said.

“And now it means nothing,” he said. “Fetch me a new cup of tea if you have the time. This one has grown cold, and I am yet unwell.”

The feathers he used to be so proud of are fraying at the edges. He hasn’t cared for them in so long, hasn’t carefully misted them or doused them in diluted soap in ages, and now they have come to this. Scraggly and broken and bent and wrong.

Sticking a finger in his mouth, he rubs it along his teeth and the bitten flesh of his inner cheeks. Decay. This is decay. He’s seen it so many other times, in so many other forms, but never did he think he’d experience it himself. And least of all so quickly! Yet it has come for him, as it comes for everyone in the end.

He finds it’s different this time. It’s different when he’s the one who’s dying.

“They say it haunts us,” Sunday said. His arm was heavy over your waist, his blankets pulled up over your chin and tucked tightly around your shoulders. Your forehead was flush with his collarbones, your eyes fluttering shut as he played with the hem of your shirt while he spoke. “The first time we kill something. It haunts us to death.”

“Is that why you’re vegetarian?” you joked.

“Yes,” he said, and although he sounded grave, you could tell he was joking, too. “Can you imagine being followed around by the ghost of a chicken and then dying while it watches?”

“A horrible way to go,” you said, laughing at the image of Sunday plugging his ears and running from the shadow of a bird as it chased him, his own wings flapping furiously as it squawked at him with no small amount of indignation. 

“Indeed,” he said with a laugh of his own. Then, after a pause, he hummed thoughtfully. “You should laugh more often.”

“I’ve been told my laugh is grating,” you said.

“It’s not,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Then I shall endeavor to do as you ask,” you said. “I will laugh until you tell me to stop.”

“I’ll never tell you to stop,” he promised, and you should’ve known better than to trust him, because he was a Halovian and donning that impenetrable mask of his was a part of his nature, yet you couldn’t help yourself. You did, you trusted him more than anything or anyone, and didn’t that make you a fool? A happy, laughing one, maybe — but a fool nonetheless. 

He is close to collapse when he drags himself to his bathroom. Leaning over the counter of his sink, he grips the marble edge, noticing in fascination that his knuckles are almost as white as the stone. He almost can’t endure the thought of looking in the mirror, but in a last burst of inspiration, he drags his gaze up to his haggard reflection.

His heart skips a beat when he realizes he’s not alone. Standing there, beside and behind him, is her. The ghost. His ghost.

Her face is placid — she’s not laughing, and neither is she frowning. He doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but he can’t change it, so who is he to complain? He waits for her to speak, but she is silent, and he considers calling out for his sister before deciding that this time, this once and never again, he will be selfish.

“It’s you,” he says, reaching out and placing his fingers against the mirror, where the image of her cheek is distorted by imperfections in the silver.

The metal is cold under the involuntary curve of his palm, which tries to follow the contours of her face but finds it to be impossible in the second dimension. Then again, to him, she was always cold, so there’s no difference, except that she is flat where once she was whole, empty where once she was everything.

“I killed you,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken it aloud, the first time he’s spit out the words that he’s been dancing around ever since she appeared to him, almost a year ago exactly. Somehow, it feels like a dagger driven into his heart and a weight lifted off of his shoulders simultaneously. If he had the strength, he’d run down the hallways of the mansion and scream it at everyone.

I killed her. I killed her and now I am dying for it. You bowed your heads in reverence to me, and all along I have had this blood on my hands. I killed her! How does it feel to have followed a sinner for so long? How does it feel to know that I am forsaken, and that one day, if you are so lucky, you will be, too?

Sunday’s mouth on yours was hot like a furnace, clumsy and demanding, with a lingering aftertaste like menthol. At first, it alarmed you, the overwhelming sensation, the much of it all, but before you could even pull away, something in the back of your mind twisted, and then you were grasping for anything you could. His hair, his wings, his shirt, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, you only needed to hold onto him in some way. You could not breathe without him. You could not live without him.

That was your first indication that something was very, very wrong.

On Halovians:

Much like their presumed cousins, the sirens of Lucyke, Halovians are irresistible to their prey. Unlike the sirens, the Halovians no longer hunt; some assume that this must be one of the religious laws they abide by, while others argue that it is mere ecological responsibility.

Simply put, the Halovians were too efficient as hunters. Several lesser species have been driven to extinction by their efforts, and it is only due to the reduction in Halovian numbers, their vows of vegetarianism, and concentrated conservation efforts that the food webs on the Halovians’ native planets have stabilized in recent years.

“Sunday,” you said to him one day, when the sun had not yet risen in the sky. “I think that I will die soon.”

His mouth moved, but no sound came out. No, it seemed he was trying to say. You won’t. His lips formed the words, but they wouldn’t take shape in his throat, wouldn’t bloom into existence, and you watched as he struggled for a while before pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead.

“Yes,” he said.

“It will be your fault when I do,” you said. You weren’t accusing him; you said it simply and plainly. You were dying. It was his fault. He was the curse and the cure, if a mere prolonging of the inevitable could be considered as curing it.

He was quiet for so long that you assumed he had forgotten about the question entirely. You did not begrudge him for it — how would he answer, anyways? There was nothing that he could say which would change it. There was nothing that he could say which would reverse what he had, knowingly or unknowingly, done.

“Yes,” he said when you were halfway to dozing off.

“What?” you mumbled, the contents of the conversation already escaping you.

“Yes,” he said. “It will be my fault.”

The ghost doesn’t say anything, watching him as he turns on the sink and splashes the water onto his face in a futile effort to cool himself off. He’s feverish as he pushes himself back into a semblance of good posture, pacing back and forth along the length of the bathroom. He can only see her in the mirror, and he wonders if he somehow trapped her there or if that’s her way of teasing him; she must find him so absurd, storming away from her visage before crawling back to it like he is starved.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “You must understand that. I didn’t know! Not at first, anyways. I would’ve sent you away. If I had known, I would’ve sent you away…”

He can hear her feet against the tile, copying his own path, but he dares not turn around. What will he see if he does? What emotions will reflect in her eyes? The first time he saw her, it was fear, unadulterated and pure and choking him with its overwhelming intensity. Then, over time, it warmed into something resembling indifference, which in turn became fondness and then, finally, a sick sort of dependence, the former liveliness and curiosity glazed over with vacancy and fixation.

“I did this to you,” he admits. He’s read that accursed book on Halovians and their accursed vestigial organs and accursed archaic hunting methods so many times that he knows this for a fact. He killed her. “But I didn’t — it wasn’t my intention, please, it wasn’t, you must know that. Did you die knowing that?”

When he halts, she halts. When he takes a step forward, she does the same. It’s maddening. He doesn’t want her to echo him. Her steps sound like a prophecy, the drumbeat to a seer’s chant, and they clang in his head, the antithesis to everything he holds precious. Order. Harmony. And then there she is, discord, cacophony, waiting for him at every turn, inescapable and unavoidable.

“It’s the truth!” he snaps. The argument is entirely one-sided; the ghost never speaks to him, after all. She only laughs and sighs in turn, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince her to say anything. “I can’t lie anymore. Although, that’s irrelevant; when it comes to you, I haven’t been able to lie in a long time.”

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came.

I swear on truth. I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on human dignity.

He’s murmuring every prayer he can think of. They play in an endless loop, springing to his lips at random, more like nonsensical jumbles of words than anything coherent. A prayer for salvation. A prayer for forgiveness. A prayer for protection. A prayer for order. A prayer for harmony. A prayer to banish her. A prayer to bring her back. 

A prayer to bring her back. A prayer to bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back.

“I won’t come back, you know,” she says. That’s the first time he’s heard her voice in so long, and he’s startled to find that it’s almost foreign, like he’s already begun to forget her, like she’s turned into something entirely beyond his understanding.

“Why not?” he says, his voice cracking as he scrambles for purchase against the wall. “I’ll do anything they ask. Anything you ask.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do or who you beg,” she says with a snicker. “You can’t bring someone back once you’ve killed them. You should’ve regretted it earlier; it’s meaningless now. Well, anyways, I have a question for you.”

He swallows but nods, his back to her, vision blurring out of focus as he squints at the plain wall in front of him.

“If you could meet me again, would you?” she says.

“Yes,” he says without thinking, because of course he would. How could he not?

“Knowing that it would kill me?” she adds, giggling. 

Is this what it’s like for those who he interrogates? Now he is the one who cannot hide behind the comfort of fabrication, who must strip himself bare to an unsympathetic audience. He hates it, in truth. He hates it more than anything, but — but he doesn’t hate her, so clenching his jaw, he nods once more.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh, my,” she says. “How romantic. Careful, or I’ll think you really do love me.”

He whirls around. “I do—!”

There’s nobody there. He wonders if there ever was.

[stardust-thief]

meet cute

an: this is not very spiderman-esque + it kinda sucks😭 but i have brainworms im thinking of so many ways the bau cld be part of this au

synopsis: your best friend, penelope garcia, gets you to meet spencer reid, who unbeknowest to you is seceretly spiderman, 1.7k words

cw: just fluffy meet cute, a little rossi slander im sorry, mentions of tobias hankel but its pre-lizard, bc tobias hankel is the lizard in this au, not proofread at all

masterlist

“Pen, are you sure this is a good idea?” Your best friend, Penelope Garcia, whom you loved with all your heart, was meddling again. She had taken notice of the fact that you are a workaholic and would prefer to spend your days researching for your newest article, than literally anything else. Deciding this was completely against the criteria to be friends with her, she has taken you to meet some of her friends. Namely, Spencer Reid. You didn’t know much about Spencer other than the fact that he was a great photographer and an even greater nerd. Said affectionately, you literally do nothing but work, how nerdier can you be.

“Are you kidding me? This is a perfect idea! Both you and Spencer are basically hermits, my thinking is that two hermits cancel out each other's hermit-ness and you’ll both bloom into beautiful social butterflies! Maybe I’ll finally get to see my best friends outside for once. Or maybe that’s too big an ask.” She grabbed your arm to make sure you couldn’t back out last minute, and all but dragged you into the little cafe you were supposed to meet this elusive Spencer at.

The cafe wasn't one you familiar with, preferring to stick with the one adjoined to the Daily Bugle building. This one had booths lining the walls, and a vast glass counter full of the most delicious pastries you’ve ever seen. The one at the Daily Bugle served only stale bagels, and made you sit in those hellish latticed garden chairs that do no good things for your comfort. 

You watch as Penelope’s hawk eyes scan the cafe, “ok so, he’s not here yet. I promise you he hates being late, just sometimes something will just come up and- he’ll show up! Go get a seat, I’ll order something for us.”

“Ok, I can do that.” You say as you turn to move towards an open booth seat. Penelope was a generally anxious person, this was something you've grown used to after knowing her for so long. But whatever that was back at the counter was a lot more anxious than strictly necessary. True, being late to a first meeting was not a good first impression. Also true that the later he is, the later you will be in getting back to the office, meaning another late night working to finish your article. But it's not the end of the world! Yet!

Penelope interrupted your doom-thinking by placing a tray full of various coffees and pastries on the table. “I got your favourite,” she says as she pushes the warm coffee towards you and sits on the opposite side of the booth, “I wasn’t sure which pastry to get so I got… many.”

“Many is a word I would use, yeah… It’s fine Pen, we can all just take some home. Have you heard anything from your friend?”

She gives her patented dramatic sigh, “Ugh, Boy Wonder says he’s on his way. Wait, forget I called him that. Spencer Reid is on his way, he says he apologises for his tardiness.”

A loud bang catches your attention as a tall man, who looks like he’s ran a marathon to get here, slams the door to the cafe open a little too hard, rattling the wall decor and capturing the attention of literally every person in the shop. You watch as his eyes sheepishly scan the room until they land on Penelope. He gives an equally sheepish wave and hurries to sit down next to Penelope.

“Spencer, what the hell was that?” Penelope mutters, and you watch as they devolve in an argument at the volume of mice. You sit there awkwardly, sipping at your coffee as you wait for them to remember you’re there.

“Ok, Spencer!” Penelope starts, “this is my friend, who has been waiting here very patiently, might I add.”

Spencer’s eyes turn to meet yours, his eyes are a warm and deep brown that reminds you of coffee. You notice the slight bloodshot twinge he has, and the dark, heavy bags that sit under them. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in at least 2 weeks, leaving strong stubble clinging to his lower face.

Out of habit, you raise your hand to shake his and introduce yourself, “Hi Spencer.” It takes a moment for him to realise you have your hand raised, and he rushes to meet it.

“Hi, I’m really so sorry for being late, that was so rude of me, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” you hear Penelope give a mocking laugh as if to say ‘you never apologise to me like this'. Ignoring her, you notice that his hands are calloused and rough, littered with small bruises and nicks that leave you questioning how they got there. Noticing this he's quick to retract his hand, “sorry, I work in a lab so I get all kinds of cuts from the machines. Um, what do you do?”

“I work as an investigative journalist for the Daily Bugle.” The Bugle has a bit of a reputation due to its owner, D. Rossi, who is known to be an avid anti-spiderman fanatic and is constantly making up theories to defraud and belittle him. But you’re too proud of your work to let something like that stop you from talking about it. At the mention of the newspaper, however, you watch as Spencer shoulders tense up and he shoots a sidelong glance at Penelope.

“The Daily Bugle! Yeah, I used to send in my photographs for them sometimes.” Spencer breathes out.

“Really? What articles were they published in, I might’ve seen them!”

“No um, Rossi kept rejecting them so I never got them published.”

Oh. Good job. “Yeah, he can be a bit tough sometimes. I’d love to have a look at your work, maybe I can try and get something published along with my articles?” You offered this as a nicety, but you’re also genuinely curious to see what kind of work he’s done.

“That would be really nice actually, I’d appreciate it. What are you working on now?”

“An article on the research Dr Hankel is doing at Oscorp, he’s taking lizard DNA and attempting to splice it with human DNA to modify our genes. He’s hoping it can help humans regenerate lost limbs the same way lizards can. It’s fascinating stuff, but I don’t think it could work.” Especially seeing as Dr Hankel seems to have about 12 screws loose, interviewing him was not one of your preferred research activities. 

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard about that. My boss at the lab says it could be amazing if it works. It just has to work first.” He chuckles and begins picking apart the pastry in front of him. “So, you don’t agree with Rossi’s whole anti-Spiderman tirade?”

You hum, “not really. I mean, I think Spiderman is doing a great thing by helping protect the people of this city, but I also think he has a lot to answer for in terms of damage to properties, and livelihoods. But I definitely don’t think he deserves the scrutiny he gets from Rossi. Without him, what would New York do?”

He visibly relaxes at that, maybe he’s just a Spiderman super fan, there are probably worse things a person could be. You all get wrapped up in conversation and fail to notice the hours passing by until a worker comes up to your table and lets you know it’s nearly closing time. 

“God, we’ve been here all day. I need to get back to work, finish my article before my deadline tomorrow.” You say, rushing to stand up and leave. Spencer rushes to stand up with you.

“You’re working overnight? Surely that can’t be safe.”

“It’ll be much less safe if I don’t hand this in to Rossi before my deadline.” You chuckle, “I’ll be fine, I’ve done the bulk of it, not much more to do now!”

“Let me walk you to your office, it’s getting dark out.” Out the corner of your eye, you see Penelope wiggle her shoulders and wink at you.

“No I can’t ask you to do that, it’s not too long of a walk.” It is such a long walk, you’re just lying. “I’ll get to the office before the moons even out, don’t worry about it. Penelope, thanks for organising this, I had a lot of fun.” She pushes out of the booth set and wraps you in a big hug.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came! It’s good to see you away from your desk for once. Don’t stay up too late, ok, go home and get some rest at an appropriate time. No later than 4am ok?” She holds you by your shoulders and looks deep into your eyes until you agree. “Good, take some of these pastries with you, you’ll need the sugar.”

“Thank you Penelope, I promise I won’t stay too late.” Pastries in hand, you turn to Spencer again. God his eyes were so deep. “It was really nice to meet you Spencer, maybe we can do this again sometime. As a group I mean, all three of us.” Real smooth! The idea of hanging out with Spencer again made you excited, but the last thing you want to do was come on to strong.

His eyes widen slightly and he rocks back and forth on his feet. “Yeah, I would love to do this again, all of us. It was lovely meeting you as well, please stay safe.”

You smile at him and turn to leave, beginning the long walk back to the offices of the Daily Bugle. The many steps in your way do nothing to stop the giddy feeling in you.

Unbeknownst to you, after Spencer walked Penelope home he slipped into a dark alley, pulled on his spider-suit, and started swinging himself across New York until he found you walking to your office. After following you from the rooftops, making sure you were safe, he noticed that you had in fact lied about how long it took you to get back to work. He made a note to ask more firmly if he could walk you back next time, especially when it was getting so late. Once you were back in the Daily Bugle, he waited and waited until you were finished with your work to escort you back home.

[siph-by-induction]

FUN FACT TIME !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, when you eat carbohydrates that cannot easily be broken down (by hydrolysis*) into glucose molecules, they don't get released into glucose molecules in your small intestine as would, for example, simpler sugars like sucrose that is only two monosaccharides (single sugars) long.

This means that these carbohydrates reach your large intestine not fully broken down. So, they tend to be fermented by gut bacteria instead. This has the lovely side effect of making one fart, as well as the genuinely lovely side effect of causing gut bacteria to (A) generally be healthier and (B) produce butanoic acid salts (known as butyrates), which are really important to regulate metabolism, and also produces SCFAs and idk what they do but Wikipedia makes it sound like they're good.

This is also why fibres (which is a broad term including things like cellulose*, so non-starch carbohydrates that aren't as easy to hydrolyse) are good for you - because they are a little bit tougher to digest, so they reach your large intestine where they are fermented by gut bacteria rather than simply instantly getting broken down into glucose the second they encounter a teeny bit of amylase.

But it gets even more interesting than that!

Starches that cannot be easily broken down are called Resistant Starches, right? Resistant starches include amylose. Amylose is a long straight chain of glucose molecules, which contrasts with the other type of starch, amylopectin, which has branches.

Because of its branching, amylopectin has a high surface area to volume ratio, so it is easier to digest. Amylose has a lower surface area to volume ratio so it is roughage and is trickier to digest, so it reaches the large intestine.

Also, in plant cells, starch is often stored in granules. What do we do when we cook food? The heat causes granules to expand, start leaking, or even burst completely, thus making our food easier to digest. It is harder to digest if you have to eat through the granule first before you can even START to break down the polymers. Cooking means that often times, the starch is Literally Right There, so it makes the food much easier to digest.

Anyway, stuff that is Really easy to digest, you get the sugar all at once, so it goes into storage or you get super energetic but it doesn't give you a good lasting amount of energy like slower-releasing starches do.

This all explains... like everything that people say about how you need to eat healthy. (Except for the stupid things like that you need to cut carbs.) It explains why fibre helps digestion, why more complex carbohydrates are often healthier than simple ones like sucrose, WHY WE COOK FOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT'S SO COOL

Explanations for those who are confused by terminology under the cut:

*cellulose is found in cell walls and is a carbohydrate that is really tough since it forms a lattice shape. It is the stuff that makes wood so strong, and also forms part of lignin AKA tree bark.

*Basically, carbohydrates are made of single sugars that bond together by condensation. Condensation reactions are when on the end of two monomers, there is an OH group and an OH group, and then one of the OHs gets removed and another H+ off of the other OH is removed. This means both monomers are then sharing the one oxygen left, and there is a water molecule produced hence the name. Hydrolysis is the inverse of this - when a water molecule is split into OH- and H+ and then it breaks apart a polymer.