#rather than figuring out how to make it work

[meeep-morp]

I like this theory.

I do think that the creepy walk is an act, probably just to spook us, and maybe scare us off from continuing the game (like c'mon-- there's gotta be at least one person who panic quit at the end of chapter 1 or 2). But I also like the idea that it's also meant to be a form of misdirection. Maybe it's both.

I'm actually very willing to accept the intentional act theory, because one of the big things that bothered me about the ending of chapter two, was that yes, it's implied that Kris slashed the tires of Toriel's car to prevent anyone from leaving. But I've been hesitant to believe that because how in the hell did that sliw, shambling lil shit make it all the way around the house, slash the tires, AND make it back inside before Toriel noticed? It seems like the answer is that they didn't, at least not while walking like that.

I can see them doing the creepy walk specifically to throw us off, like I was. "There's no fucking way they could've done that! Have you SEEN this fucker try to walk around without their soul? They can barely keep themself upright, let alone run!"

That being said, I don't think it's entirely an act. Rather, I feel like it might be more of an exaggeration of the pain and weakness they feel without the soul. I mean, yes, they're clearly still being performative in order to seem much more creepy and weak and zombie-like than they actually are, but I also think that this performance is heavily inspired by the truth.

I mean, op, you mention yourself that Noelle points out weaknesses and shakiness in Kris's voice, and if Kris had recently... expelled us, that'd make sense. If my memory's correct, then every time we've seen Kris remove their soul, we watched their whole body shake, and we specifically hear the sounds of damage being taken. Maybe the teeth gnashing in the chapter two bathroom scene was them being a bit extra, but I think it's still clear that the process of removing their soul places a lot of strain on their body. Maybe they're not exactly weak because they're soulless, but because they just removed it a few minutes ago.

Another thing I want to point out is that yes, I don't think we entirely get to figure out what happens when Kris is without us for too long, but I do know that if you wait around when you first spot them making chocolate milk, they'll slowly slump over and eventually seem to pass out after a few minutes. I didn't see anything beyond the "faint", because that was when I was like, "aight, that's enough, it's gone too far, let me back in," but I was straight up jumpscared by how suddenly they "woke up" and quickly leapt at the soul. I've been wondering for a while how the fuck they realized I was there, and I was writing it off as some sort of magic thing where they could simply just psychically sense it, but that still doesn't explain how sudden that switch was.

And so this theory makes me wonder... what if Kris was pretending to faint. What if that "Kris...... Your soul......." line from Mysterious Phone Voice wasn't concern over Kris's health, but rather them saying, "Head's up Kris, your soul's watching." I mean, it's pretty clear that Mysterious Phone Voice has some level of omniscient-type knowledge (probably through hidden cameras and tapped phones and shit), so it's not far fetched that they knew we escaped the closet and were spying in on Chocolate Milk Time (TM).

And if it's true that they warned Kris about us, and if Kris has been acting weaker in order to mislead us, then yeah, of course they would pretend like their body's failing them. Actually-- I'll go even further and say that it wasn't just to make us think they're weak when they're soulless, but rather that that specific moment was the Mysterious Phone Voice and Kris working together in order to draw us out into the open, just so Kris could catch us and put us back in time out. Because nimble as they are, they likely wouldn't be able to grab us from the vent; we'd get away too quick, and Kris simply just can't fit in there like we can. I think even Mysterious Phone Voice saying, "Kris... without soul.... you'd...." might've been a part of an act.

I also think the fainting thing was an act because at first they could barely say awake long enough to make and drink a glass of chocolate milk, but after we get put back in time out, not only are they perfectly able to make another glass, but they're also able to play the piano for eight minutes, and then, after waiting long enough to get all the secret dialogue for the basement power outage scene, they STILL have enough juice left to fucking snipe us with a puck, and beat the shit out of us with a hockey stick?! Yeah no something ain't adding up. Even if we take out the time it took for me to listen to the entirety of the piano playing, and me staying completely still in the basement for like-- 5-10 minutes, and me staying still for 10 minutes after the two left me alone upstairs (I was secret hunting, and I wasn't about to disobey Susie's orders), it still wouldn't make sense.

Final thing of note, when Kris finally got us back in, they kinda stay down for a few seconds, and they shake a couple times. When we're able to control them again, we can only get them a few steps before they collapse for a second. I don't think that was an act. I think they might've been in a weakened state the entire time they're soulless, and I wonder if the longer they spend one way, the more taxing it is to change it (so the longer they spend without us, the more strain their body goes through when putting us back in, and vice versa).

But yeah, those are my thoughts on this. I do think Kris is naturally in a weakened state without their soul, but less shambling zombie weak, and maybe more like pulling an all nighter without coffee, or 3 days into a fast (speaking of which, that's another explanation for Noelle's weak voice comment, and the momentary collapse after Kris gets us back in. We can't eat light world food for Kris, and tbh, I'd also eat an entire pie in one sitting if I hadn't eaten in a few days, and then an eldritch demon thing made me run around everywhere all day, making me even hungrier. Kid could simply just be malnourished with POTS, and they stood up too fast after getting us back in their body, causing them to actually almost pass out for realsies). Mostly functional, but suboptimal.

...I actually like the "Kris's soul is strong enough to sustain their body, but without it, the symptoms of malnutrition hit them hard and fast, and that's the real reason why they seem weaker when soulless" theory. I doubt that's actually cannon, but I might just headcannon it.

Anygay-- this got off track. Thanks for reading my ramblings. Farewell, until we meet again.

The interesting thing is…. from the glimpses of SOUL-less Kris we saw in Chapter 1 + 2, it was notable how…. strangely they seemed to move. We saw them walking with a sort of zombie-like gait that maybe implied they weren’t in full control of their body still, or maybe just that they were in immense pain.

It led to a lot of people speculating that Kris does need a SOUL to some level. Maybe the SOUL is Kris’ but we’re a foreign entity that has taken it over, or that Kris’ original actual SOUL has been removed and replaced with us. If Kris needed the SOUL to live, that would explain their slow, deliberate movements and also why they keep putting us back inside despite clearly hating being under our control.

So now, with Chapter 4 giving us a much better glimpse of SOUL-less Kris doing stuff… it’s notable that they seem… fully capable of moving ‘normally’. Angrily, but normally.

Even when they do the whole Creepy Zombie Walk thing they are notably faster than they seemed to be in Chapters 1 + 2

They can do things that require fine motor skills, focus and swiftness like playing the piano, handling glasses, and beating the shit out of us with a hockey stick and it's all animated as smoothly as most other Deltarune Animations. Not really implying effort or stiffness the way that original Creepy Zombie Walk animation did.

And while Susie only gets a brief moment to interact with SOUL-less Kris in the Normal Route

Noelle has prolonged interactions with them in the Weird Route (both on-screen in Chapter 4 and off-screen in-between Chapters 2 and 3) and... while she does note that they sounded 'weak and shaky' and obviously their behavior seems weird on account of the whole 'traumatized by the Unkillable Evil Time-Demon only they can see" thing

... There's nothing to really indicate that there's anything outright unnatural or 'zombie-like' about the way Kris moves and interacts with her while SOUL-less. Since this is the Weird Route, Noelle even note this is the most natural and Kris-like they've acted in the last few days.... until we take over again.

And now we know they can go without the SOUL for a fairly prolonged period of time. The Ominous Phone Voice of Probably Carol does tells them they need the SOUL, it seems unclear why.

So… what that means for SOUL-less Kris’ behavior before? It’s possible that even if Kris can operate without a SOUL, it still hurts like hell. So right after tearing out the SOUL they are in Maximum Pain and it's hard to ignore, causing them to move in a struggling and slow manner. But the more they go without it, they kinda get used to it and the pain fades into the background - allowing them to do stuff more-or-less normally.

(Basically Kris has Chronic Pain but the only Painkiller that works for them is Demonic Possession)

…Or, knowing Kris, maybe this… was all an act. They were only behaving like This because they knew we were watching. It is pretty notable that they walk around normally in the Holidays' Kitchen while we're eavesdropping on them and only swap to the Creepy Walk Animation once they notice us....

Maybe this is an act, either to make us underestimate the things Kris could do SOUL-less… or because they’re a little teen Edgelord so they just enjoy playing up the whole Soulless Zombie thing when they have a chance.

[martiniluvr]

18+ minors dni

heyyy…how y’all doin…

back after an unexpected (long) hiatus lol hope y’all missed me…anywayz we hit 3k while I was gone so! celebratory brucie post bcus I love u all and it’s my thank u for sticking around 💞

warnings: nsfw alphabet for bruce wayne, so there’s a variety of things under the cut. please proceed with caution 🩷

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

A | Aftercare (what he’s like after sex)

I’ll die on the hill that bruce wayne is a gentleman first and foremost. he’s offering you a hot shower, a cold drink, and one of his fresh-pressed shirts to protect your modesty. and don’t worry—he’s gone in the morning (billionaire business calls), but he’s leaving you a full breakfast spread to wake up to (thanks, alfred).

B | Body part (his favorite body part of his and also his partner’s)

let’s be honest here. bruce knows he looks good. clear blue eyes, jet black hair, chiseled jaw, and a sculpted body…there’s not much about him physically that he can fault, even though he would never say that out loud. and of course, he loves everything about you; that being said, there’s something about a rounded, feminine figure that drives bruce wayne wild. hips, thighs, an ample bust—he loves himself a whole lot of woman.

C | Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

I’ll just say it: mr. wayne is giving you thick, heavy loads every time. he’s saving them for you (see J), and he’s not interested in finishing anywhere except inside you (mouth included here). maybe it’s an intimacy thing, maybe it’s a hint of a breeding kink, or maybe it’s just possessiveness; either way, it’s all for you.

D | Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of his)

billionaire vigilante bruce wayne, who could snap a grown man in half and towers over you even when you’re in six-inch heels, would secretly love to be made to pleasure you for nothing in return. having you sit on his face, using him to get off over and over again, but never once offering him release as his cock twitches against his abdomen; the thought has gotten him through many a tedious charity gala.

E | Experience (how experienced is he? does he know what he’s doing?)

how do I put this delicately? bruce is…well, kind of a whore. after all, you don’t earn billionaire playboy status for no reason. his sexual body count more than makes up for the bodies he hasn’t accumulated thanks to his no-kill rule, so he’s working with a wealth of experience here—and, yes, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

F | Favorite position (this goes without saying)

bruce loves to see you on top, where he can take in the view of your body, your face, and your cunt in one fell swoop; plus, when you start to falter as you orgasm creeps up on you, he can pull you into a bear hug against his chest and pick up the pace as you whine into his neck.

G | Goofy (is he more serious in the moment? is he humorous? etc.)

it should come as no surprise that bruce isn’t the king of levity in bed. sex for a man like him represents one of two things: purely stress relief, or deep and intimate emotional connection. either way, it’s not a laughing matter; he’s taking it—and your pleasure—seriously. and if you know about the batman mantle? you’re in soul-bonding territory with him.

H | Hair (how well groomed is he? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

bruce keeps himself very well-manicured, but you’ll find that manscaping isn’t his main priority between his philanthropy and vigilantism. still, he’s keeping things neat and practical, with a healthy sprinkling of happy trail—a balance between bruce’s polished good looks and the bat’s ruggedness.

I | Intimacy (how is he during the moment? the romantic aspect)

there are two schools of thought here: hookup bruce and relationship bruce. the former is…rather impersonal. now, the latter—the intensity with that bruce wayne is off the charts. he’s romantic in the vampiric soul-bonding sense only found in gothic literature. penetrating gaze, minimal conversation, and unwavering skin-to-skin contact the whole time, like you’ll vanish into thin air if he lets go of you for even a second.

J | Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

perhaps controversial but I don’t think bruce wastes his time with masturbation. all his discipline, training, and mental fortitude puts him above something as instinctive and banal as instant sexual gratification. he’d much rather save his energy for a fulfilling, drawn-out sexual release—and part of that is doing it with you.

K | Kink (one or more of their kinks)

this one is simple. bruce has a size kink. yes, he’s huge, he’s strong, he’s rich—but seeing how he eclipses you when he stands behind you sparks a fire in his lower abdomen unlike much else. the way his massive hands dwarf yours, or how your delicate fingers clutch at his muscular thighs as you take his length in your mouth…it strokes his ego, what can he say?

L | Location (favorite places to do the do)

though his custom-made king sized bed is more than appropriate real estate, bruce can’t get enough of fucking you in the shower. it’s sensual, erotic, and deeply intimate. plus, it gives him an easy excuse to manhandle you however he pleases—“you’re gonna slip, darling. put your legs around me.”

M | Motivation (what turns him on, gets him going)

everything about you can get bruce hard with little to no effort, but he really enjoys seeing you in your form-fitting pencil skirts and high heels for work. maybe it’s how serious and commanding they make you look, or maybe it’s that he knows he gets to peel that little outfit off your body in his office when you visit him on his late nights. whatever the case, he loves catching you on your way to work.

N | No (something he wouldn’t do, turn offs)

he’ll always aim to please, but bruce would be reluctant to inflict pain on you beyond a few pointed spanks. like, he genuinely could not bring himself to harm you in any material way. with his size, skill set, values, and experiences, he would never risk doing anything that might actually hurt or otherwise scare you. now, if you want to rough him up a little…that’s another story.

O | Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

bruce loves to pleasure you and he does it well; he’d never forgo the opportunity to have you gasping and begging for release while his face is buried between your legs. that said, there are few things in the world he thinks about more than your pretty eyes looking up at him as you slide his cock between your lips. between the pleasure and the view, receiving head is the closest someone like him is getting to heaven.

P | Pace (is he fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

bruce wants you to feel every inch of him, so he’s starting off slow—agonisingly so—and building his pace gradually. he’s also not one to rush, meaning he’ll rarely get rough and sloppy. despite appearances, he can be incredibly tender, and he wants to take his time. when he’s about to cum, though, you’ll notice his thrusts getting a little ragged, and his grip a little harsher.

Q | Quickie (his opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

this may be an unpopular opinion, but bruce is seldom going to prefer a quickie over drawn-out, sensual sex. and it’s not because he doesn’t enjoy them; frankly, they just don’t give him the opportunity to appreciate your body the way he’d prefer to. now, if you insisted, he’d be happy to oblige, but you’d almost certainly have to pick things up again later with more time for him to truly feel satisfied.

R | Risk (is he game to experiment? does he take risks? etc.)

I think it’s not far-fetched to assume bruce’s appetite for risk is healthy. you know, on account of the vigilante thing. and the billionaire thing. he’ll try almost anything you ask him to, and I can see a young bruce being very much the experimentalist, though age teaches him restraint. still, fucking you in his office is one of his biggest fantasies, despite how, well, risky it is.

S | Stamina (how many rounds can he go for? how long does he last?)

the limit does not exist. and I really mean that. bruce wayne can last for a long time, and he can go multiple rounds—it’s that goddamn training of the mind and body. the two of you can easily go into the early hours of the morning, even with generous breaks in between; he’s got a lot of pent up desire to be released.

T | Toys (does he own toys? does he use them? on a partner or himself?)

I don’t see him owning toys for himself, but bruce is more than open to buying and using them on you. you’ll never forget your first orgasm from a hitachi wand while he was buried balls-deep in you—all because you mentioned you’d never used one before and were curious to try it. he won’t forget it either; watching you get yourself off like that is an image that stirred…something in him (see D).

U | Unfair (how much he likes to tease)

he’s not going out of his way to drive you crazy—not that it would be hard—because bruce is basically incapable of denying you anything. whatever you want is yours: a handbag, a new dress, a car, an orgasm, literally anything he can give you. now, he does enjoy it when you tease him. a man like him is used to getting whatever he wants, so having a beautiful woman cause him strife…well, it turns him on.

V | Volume (how loud he is, what sounds he makes, etc.)

unsurprisingly, bruce isn’t all that vocal; it’s all gritted teeth and laboured breaths as he tries to maintain composure—after all, he’s supposedly mastered discipline—but despite his best efforts, the feeling of your soft body on his is enough to draw out the odd low, rumbling moan, especially when he’s close to climax.

W | Wild card (a random headcanon)

he couldn’t degrade you even if he tried. bruce wayne only knows how to praise you; “darling”, “princess”, “sweetheart”. when he can tear himself away from the sight of you squirming at his touch, he tells you how beautiful you are, and how incredible you feel. he’s a #tenderlover and I stand by that.

X | X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

bruce is slightly over the 6 inch mark, but girth is where he really shines. every thrust fills you just enough to make your toes curl, and the gentle upward curve of his cock grazes your g-spot each time you rock your hips forward. the tip—a pale pink that matches his lips—is particularly sensitive to your touch.

Y | Yearning (how high is his sex drive?)

incredibly high. bruce wayne could fuck you at any given moment if you only asked. but, he won’t act on his desire arbitrarily. he’s all about self-control and mind over matter; part of his training inherently taught him to contain his base instincts, which includes his sex drive. but let the record show—he will acquiesce if you even slightly suggest you’d like your insides rearranged.

Z | Zzz (how quickly he falls asleep afterwards)

he barely sleeps on a normal day, so bruce is certainly not rolling over and going to bed after ravaging your body. he’ll have a shower—ideally with you—and wait for you to fall asleep by his side before he even considers getting some rest himself. he does sleep eventually, though, and he finds his most restful nights are spent with you draped over his body, breathing softly against his chest.

[girly-girlk]

Drew and reader having a huge age gap and so he finally takes her to meet his family and they’re just not feeling the gap yk? Or maybe the reader is pregnant, and then he takes her to meet them?

too much space between us

drew starkey x reader

summary: you meet drew’s family for the first time and they’re wishy washy about the age gap

a/n: i really love how this one turned out! enjoy!!💕

you were nervous, but you tried to play it cool. one hand clutched the bottle of wine drew told you to bring — his mom will love it, he said — and the other was tucked tightly into his, your fingers wound together like a lifeline. the ride to north carolina had been full of teasing and soft music, drew rubbing your thigh and whispering how excited he was for you to finally meet the people who raised him.

but the second you stepped into the warmth of the starkey family home, it was like a wall went up.

they weren’t rude. not at first. just… formal. polite in the way people are when they don’t want to say the wrong thing, but are already thinking it.

his mom gave you a once-over that lasted too long. his dad kept asking you about school — which was fair, since you were still in it. drew had told them, of course. they knew you were a lot younger than him. but knowing it on paper and seeing it in real life were clearly two different things.

“so… what are you studying again?” his dad asked as you helped set the table.

you offered a small smile. “communications. i’ve been leaning toward public relations.”

“ah. so, still figuring things out.”

it wasn’t really a question, but you nodded anyway. “sort of, yeah. i’m only a junior.”

from across the kitchen, drew shot you a reassuring look, like he could sense your skin crawling. his fingers brushed your back as he passed, and it helped a little. but not enough.

dinner was worse.

his sister asked if you were even old enough to drink. his aunt joked about drew “robbing the cradle,” and though she laughed like it was harmless, her eyes didn’t soften when you caught them.

“drew,” his mom finally said, after too many awkward silences and not enough wine, “how did you two even meet?”

you opened your mouth, but drew jumped in.

“a film event in l.a. a friend of hers was working it. we started talking — the rest is kind of history.”

there was a pause. then, carefully:

“she just… seems so young, honey. i mean, you’ve always gone for women who were a little more grounded.”

you stared at your plate, cheeks burning. drew’s hand found your thigh under the table, warm and protective.

“she is grounded,” he said, voice low. firm. “you don’t know her yet. but you will.”

his mom hesitated. “i’m not trying to be difficult, drew. it’s just… when you’re nearly thirty and she’s barely legal, people are going to talk.”

“let them,” he snapped. “she makes me happy. that’s all i care about.”

you didn’t say much the rest of the night.

and later, when you were curled up in the guest room bed, your back to him, drew ran his fingers through your hair and whispered, “i’m sorry. i should’ve prepared you better.”

you blinked into the dark. “you shouldn’t have to defend me like that.”

“i’m not defending you. i’m protecting us.”

“but maybe they’re right,” you whispered. “maybe there’s too much space between us.”

drew turned you to face him, his eyes searching yours. “maybe. but if i have to spend the rest of my life closing that space — proving them wrong — i will. i’d rather spend forever fighting for you than a lifetime pretending someone else fits better.”

your breath hitched, the doubt still heavy in your chest. but so was his love — warm, real, and stubborn as hell.

and maybe that was enough.

[callsignmagnolia]

Safe Harbor

Synopsis: Naval Aviators need love too. Everyone can learn that, except one.

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader, platonic! Daggers x Reader, no physical descriptions, no use of Y/N, readers call sign is Harbor

Warnings: Jake being a bit of a jerk? none really, just fluff

Word Count: 3.7k

The Hard Deck during Navy Week is overstimulating to say the least. Countless sailors pour in at every entrance, the music is played a few decimals higher, and the rowdiness exponentially increases with each round. In seven days time, Penny makes up for any unpaid bar tabs for the entire year and sets aside enough for a vacation and tuition for Amelia. For the regulars, it’s a time of great joy, for the first few days- tension easies from shoulders, old friends are welcomed, and laughter flows out, mixing with the Pacific breeze. However, by the times day four rolls around, people begin to grow weary, craving the calm ease of their regular place again. 

In the corner booth, the Daggers are sorting out who has more energy. Their little group shows a wide variety of exhaustion with the swarming socialites around them. Rooster hasn’t played piano yet tonight, a demarkation that he was pulling inwards for rest. Phoenix is eyeing the pool table, waiting for a break but not willing to go jockey for a position. Hangman and Coyote on the other hand are as lively as ever, challenging some poor LTJG to a game of darts that she is bound to loose. 

“Maybe we should warn her about how ruthless those two are,” Payback breathes out, taking his seat on the stool at the end of the booth as he hands you whatever fruity miracle Penny was able to concoct in this chaos. 

“She’ll figure it out or embarrasses them herself. I don’t have the wherewithal to care right now,” Phoenix mutters more to the ceiling than to the rest of the table. “Are you going to put all of these data points into your spreadsheet, Harbor?” She glances your way with a side eye and a smirk. 

“Nah. Everything may be data but I see no need to boost their ego anymore than it already is by spending pages on them two alone.” You throw a smile her way, settling your back against the aged, painted wood of the booth. 

Being sent to North Island had radically changed your life. It started as a short six-month study the Navy had ordered to understand the emotional components and needs of their elite pilots. You flew with them on training runs, you stood next to them as they were reprimanded, you held their hand during medical exams if they asked- you had become part of them in a way that broke your heart as your original term came to an end. Earning a permanent contract with the Daggers was a second chance at building an enduring life with purpose, helping people with a mission keep themselves from disappearing into the weight of it all, rather than just bouncing around from grant to contract, trying to care for people as well as you could before you were called elsewhere. 

A warm sensation runs from your shoulder down your spine as a familiar cheek bone rests against your clavicle. A soft mop of well kept brown hair tickles your neck as glasses are pulled off and set on the table in between beer glasses and a basket of fries. Your hand naturally reaches to push a loose stand behind his ear, pressing a lingering touch to his cheek as he sighs against you, letting his eyes flutter shut. 

“So tired,” Bob almost whimpers into your shirt as his breathing shifts to a slower rhythm and his heart beats settles as the noise is tuned out.

“I know, honey. It’s okay, we’ll get Rooster to go pull Bagman off his high horse here soon and we can get you back to the barracks for bed.” you promise him. 

“How come Bob always gets your attention first on Hard Deck nights and the rest of us have to stand in line?” Fanboy huffs trying to shove Phoenix from the prime seat of the booth to no avail. 

“Because he isn’t afraid to have everyone else see him cuddled up against Harbor like some of us who are still working though our fragile masculinity,” Payback almost deadpans to his buddy who looks like he is trying to overcome his fear as he gazes at Bob’s position longingly. You meet his eyes with a soft smile before assuring him that there were head scratches waiting for him when you all got back to post.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hangman grimaces across the room to the scene of his team mates, who are supposedly the world’s best fighter pilots, all melting into the side of a woman who doesn’t even sleep with any of them. Harbor was not Hangman’s favorite, that was no secret. The whole squad knew it and heard the sarcasm that dripped from his words whenever he spoke to her, letting her callsign roll off his tongue with a hint of disdain. 

“Why don’t you just swallow your pride and go ask her for something, man. You might not want to fall asleep on her shoulder like Bob but she’ll sit with you in medical and advocate for you when your head is spinning from a concussion,” Coyote clasps a hand on his shoulder as he hands him another beer. “I gotta tell you- it’s a sweet thing to have someone standing up for you and managing all the paperwork when you can’t even think straight. She even submitted my medical claims to my VA file for when I retire.”  Hangman pauses for a moment, throwing a cocky look to the side as he sends a dart straight to the bullseye behind his back. 

“The day I can’t do that, you can take me to Harbor because I will no longer be a man and will have reverted to my infantile state of needing cuddles.” His eye roll is caught from across the bar as the rest of the Daggers holed up in the booth are making their quiet escape towards the door. Rooster moves you to walk on his opposite side, protecting you from the loathing emitting from the other side of the bar.

“Find your own way home, Hangman. Coyote, move it or loose it,” he hollers as he pushes the double door open for you to walk under his arm, Coyote shrugging and jogging to catch up with the rest. For a moment, Seresin considers that it would be nice to have someone to tell gruff Navy doctors to be gentler. He shakes the thought out of his mind, painting a flashy smile on his face as he walks towards the bar, but the loneliness settles on his chest. 

-

The first six months with the daggers had been strictly business- mostly. They might be phenomenal pilots but you were phenomenal at identifying their needs and articulating that in a way the Navy would be confident investing resources into meeting. You were calculated. Everything was data that could be leveraged. You flew with them and saw what control didn’t sitting in Comanche miles away. You wrote down the twinges, the jumps, the bruises, and handed the detailed list to them all before medical appointments to make sure they were taken care of and everything was documented. You reminded them all how closely mental and physical condition tied into their ability to fly well and to come home. 

While they struggled to trust an outsider, one day stood as the fulcrum between weariness and full embrace. The anniversary of Goose’s death was a silent day of remembrance for the Daggers. Everyone was kinder, flew softer, and stood closer after they made it back safely. No one spoke about it but it was obvious- everything was weightier. Their wingman was mourning his father and fellow aviator. They were faced to deal with the realities of their job- that even training wasn’t safe. You didn’t know what today was as you sat on the tarmac, watching what was supposed to be the last few maneuvers before your contract ended. 

Every movement was textbook. Without flaw. Like the sorrow was making them all fly better to honor the day. You were captivated by the soliloquy being painted before your very eyes. Suddenly, Roosters jet lurched and seemingly began to drop out of the sky. Your feet were under you in a second as you watched- you had no radio to understand truly what was happening- the scene unfolding like the climax of a blockbuster film. From start to finish, the whole ordeal was a total of 23 minutes but it felt like hours gripping your necklace as you watch him skillfully land a smoking plane. 

The runway became a blur of crew as they covered the aircraft in foam, Rooster climbing out as fast as the blood in his eyes would allow. As he stumbled to the ground, you ran to meet him, pressing your hand to the gash on his forehead. Your eyes meet the blown wide brown of his own, whispering quiet nothings as you waited for the medics to arrive. You stayed until they pulled you away from him. You followed him to medical. You sat in a chair in the corner of the room during debriefing. You watch the hollow look settle on him as Phoenix tried to push a plate his way. You had gone before him and set out a towel and fresh civies for him in the locker room. 

They all noticed. They noticed your lack of questions. They noticed the way you didn’t leave ever, even when your work day was done, even to wash off the blood you had accidentally smeared across your neck and shirt. They noticed how you didn’t eat, but sat beside him with a tote bag with snacks for whenever he was ready. They noticed how you read him, how you saw that this was deeper than a training incident to him. You didn’t even know the gravity of the day, yet you were kind and present. 

Rooster had wandered into the briefing room instead of to his bronco to head home after his shower, sat shrouded in darkness, with the glow of his original training run emitting from the projector. You pushed the door open gently, with controlled movements as to not startle him. His face gave him away- he was fighting back tears- as you sat in the chair next to him, pulling your legs up to your chest. Heartbeats and shallow breathes are the only sounds filling the quiet room. Your fingers carefully reach for his own, gingerly lacing your hands into his rough, calloused ones that were aching from the pressure he put on the throttle earlier. He grasped onto your hand like a lifeline, your head coming to rest between his shoulder and jaw. The tears he was holding back fell like rain, splashing onto his lap. You didn’t move until Rooster did, nor did you speak until he did. 

The Daggers however watched carefully from the small window in the door way, entranced by the vulnerability and safety of the moment. Hangman stood at the back of group, gritting his jaw, as jealousy crawled up his throat.

“It’s like she’s a harbor for him. Right there, he is safe from the storms,” Bob whispers without much thought to the profoundness of what he is saying. 

The next morning, her helmet that she always wears is painted with Harbor- her own callsign. Two weeks later, her permanent contract is signed. No one talks about how she got the name, but they all know. Just as no one talks about the paint matching her helmet that dots Payback’s backpack, but they all know.  

-

Habits form slowly but surely. You still keep sections of your notebook reserved for each of the Daggers- things they need, pictures of great moments, their preferences, their allergies. You manage their appointments and documentation. You make them cakes for their birthdays and accompany them to less than desirable meetings. 

They all lean on you in different ways. Rooster asks you to help him find all the Naval documentation on his dad. You compile it into a book as if Nick Bradshaw was the most important figure in history. You hold his hand as he looks through old pictures and let his tears fall into your hair tangled under his jaw. On his parent’s birthdays, you make him their favorite dessert- key lime pie- and he swears his own mother handed you the recipe as a final “I love you” to her little boy. 

Phoenix wants a will. She wants to lay out what she wants to happen to her if she can’t make her own medical decisions. She wants to make sure her nieces are taken care of if Auntie Nat cant be there to protect them. You are the one that takes her to the Jag Officer and helps her walk through it all. On dress blue days, you straighten her ribbons on her uniform and brush her hair before pulling it up into a regulation bun so she can focus on other things clouding her mind. 

Fanboy is the one that just comes out and asks it one day as you sit in the ready room. Barely above a whisper, “Harbor, would you let me sit between your legs and you’d scratch my head like my mom used to?” You smile and grab his hand to settle him on the floor in front of the couch. He almost whimpers as your fingernails lightly scratch along his skull. He anchors himself by planting his hands on your feet. He dazed, but at peace, when he hears Mav call his name across the radio.

Payback wants companionship. You do laundry with him- not for him. You make lunch with him- not for him. A wingman keeps him stable, keeps him moving, and you will do anything he needs, no matter how seemingly common place or boring. Sometimes, when he has run out of chores, he comes and does yours alongside you. Hence the beautiful backyard entertaining space you have- two people happy to laugh together can get a lot done. 

It starts with Coyote’s trip to medical. But what he leaves out when he tells Hangman about it is that you held his hand, letting him cringe as they stuck him over and over again. Jake Seresin has no business in knowing that he does not like needles. You go with him to every appointment, including his terrifying hearing appointment, and kiss his forehead for being brave. He takes you to lunch after every one, always off post, so he can talk about whatever is on his heart. 

Bob is the first one to fall asleep on you. He is gentle and free with his affection, but the Navy offers little expression of that so he takes full advantage of your soft arms and welcoming spirit. He falls asleep on your shoulder, tucks his head in your lap when they are forced to fly Space A somewhere, and crumbles to his knees when you run your hands through his damp hair when he steps out of his jet. 

Everyone leaned on you- except Hangman. He keeps his distance. He makes sure his hand never brushes yours even when handing you a file, as if any contact will burn him to the ground. Never sits close enough to accidentally lean his head against yours. You don’t push. Cockiness and vulnerability rarely go hand in hand. His snarky comments about weak people needing hugs and company roll off your back like a duck in water. Others on the squad aren’t as easily unbothered, and one particular comment led to Payback’s class ring leaving a blooming bruise under Hangman’s eye. 

To no ones surprise, you were the first to get him ice. 

-

A hesitant knock jars your attention from the book in your blanket covered lap. For a second, you don’t bother to move. Three am is the hour of odd noises and no reason to unwrap yourself from the coziest chair in the chilly house. A second knock has you rising with the blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders. In hindsight, wearing one of Natasha’s old pt t-shirt and shorts was not the wisest idea during the winter in your drafty cottage but its not like she or Bob or Rooster or whoever is at your door will care- they all will share a blanket in a heartbeat. 

The doorknob turns and your breath catches in your throat as your eyes land on Jake. 

Not Hangman. Not Lt Seresin. Just Jake. 

He looks small standing before you, with his hands in his pockets, his eyes rimmed red, and shoulders hunched as if he will be scolded for being here. His pupils trail up to meet yours, his lip quivering. Your heart breaks into pieces watching a scene you never thought you’d see. 

There is no pride, no cockiness, not a hint of a smirk. Not even one comment about the blanket around your shoulders or the fact that you are awake at this hour. 

“I-I’m, I-know,” his voice cracks. He rubs his hand over his face and cards through his hair as he shifts his weight from one foot to another. Taking a deep breath to pull his voice together as best he can manage, he continues, “I know I am an asshole. I know I shouldn’t be here but-“ his voice breaks as he looks down at his boots, “I-I just needed to be held, and you do it for them.” His eyes meet yours again as a tear runs down his cheek, “I thought maybe you’d do it for me?” 

You are stunned to see him. Here. Like this. Asking for such forbidden things, well, things he has classified in his own mind as forbidden. In the beginning, you believed he was scared of seeming weak and that was what kept him from ever asking for any help. But as time moved on and he grew colder and colder towards you despite the squad becoming more welcoming and loving, your perception shifted. He must have just loathed you in particular.You had tried to be as kind and open as possible, tried to give him space but tell him he was valued just the same even if he didn’t want any fan fare around it. If anyone else had been in your job, he would have reached out, but it was you that was stopping him. 

You hesitated too long. The smallest ounce of hope that was resting on his chest had been reduced to nothing more than a pile of dust at his feet. New tears are forming as he takes a step back and alarm bells are going off in your brain that you are missing a moment with him.

“I-I’m sorry. I sh-shouldn’t have come here. Good-“ before he could finish his sentence, your hand wraps gently around his wrist. The sensation of soft skin against his own cuts his words off as he focuses on the warmth spread across his arm. 

“Jake,” you whisper, eyes softening as he meets your gaze, “I am glad you’re here.” With a gentle tug, he follows you into the darkness of your living room, illuminated only by the small lamp and candle by your reading chair. His eye wander across the walls and to his surprise, he sees a photo of just him framed next to pictures of everyone else in the squad. He had never given you an honest smile, yet he was on your wall. 

His world collapses as he feels your arms reach up and wrap around his neck, fingers toying with the base of his hair. He instantly melts into your arms, the blanket that covered you dropping to the ground and his tears soaking through your shirt. He is crashing into you like a wave, like a rogue jet. It’s all sorrow and pain pouring out as he sobs into you. Your feet move to balance his body weight on your frame. 

Time passes in a blink. Neither of you is sure of how long you stand there before you speak, “Come on, honey. Let’s go be a bit more comfortable.” He is pulled gently down the hallway until he is ushered in to a bedroom. 

“No no no, thats not what I came here for, I swear,” he is trying to convince you through a tear clouded voice. Standing before you was the most honest he has been with someone, the most vulnerable, in a very long time and he’d be damned if he messed it up now.

“Relax, Jake. It’s okay,” you coo as you gently remove his jacket and push him lightly to sit on the bed. You unlaces his boots, his eyes staying trained on your movements. The blankets are pulled back, the empty side of the bed patted to urge him to join you. He is hesitant, eyes flickering, an internal debate raging. “You asked to be held. It’s the first thing you have asked from me in over a year. Please. Just let me hold you, Jake.” you whisper. 

He folds. Of course he does. His physical body was entranced by the feeling of a hug that wasn’t from a battle buddy or laced with expectation. His body crashes into your arms, head tucked on your chest and legs gently intertwining with yours as you pull the covers up around his shoulder. Your fingers dance along his spine and run through his hair, his breathing slowing against your heartbeat. 

“Is this the part where I have to tell you why I am crying?” his voice muffles against your shirt. 

“Not if you don’t want to, sweet boy” comes the reply, punctuated by a kiss to the forehead and his heart rate evens out. Outside of these walls, he is Hangman- the only naval aviator on active duty with a confirmed air to air kill, cocky ladies man with a killer smile. But here? In your arms? He is just Jake. He is loved. 

He wants to never have to hear it from the squad about this but now that he knows how good this feels, he can never live without it again. As he drifts off to sleep, lulled by your steady breathing, he can’t believe he didn’t take advantage of his safe harbor earlier. 

Thank you for reading! I am so glad you are here! Please reblog and comment- I live for these! Let me know how I can improve!

You are doing an amazing job, sweetheart!

[rekas-bitches]

For summaries I've got a couple trics I like, both to use, and to judge whether I wantto read other fics.

1. Some text from the actual fic.

Whether it's one line or several lines of dialogue. If you're writing a one-shot, it can be towards the end of the fic, but it can also be the first line. This helps both give a sample of writing quality and create curiosity. This can be followed by a brief explanation giving context to the dialogue

They have Shepard’s pie for dinner. Ron and Hermione watch Harry fill up his plate and only start serving themselves when he picks up his fork and starts eating. Neville laughs into his wine glass. “How are you dealing with their mothering, Harry?” he asks. Ron opens and closes his mouth for a minute, groping for an excuse. Eventually, Ron says, “He’s just so small, Nev.” “Hey,” Harry says. “I’m seventeen. I’m an adult.” Ron shakes his head at Neville. “My best friend is an infant.” A curse regresses Harry to his seventeen year old self, physically and mentally. He doesn’t recognise this strange peaceful wizarding world, but there are two people he does recognise: Ron and Hermione. Based off this tumblr post.

- there will come a time, you'll see by aloneintherain

2. Basic explanation followed by a second one

As the title establishes, a longer explanation followed by a brief second explanation. Neither would work without the other and they work together to create a clear picture of what's going on. Sometimes the second line can just be a quick trope explanation along the line of "Or: Yet another soulmates AU", "AKA the time Peter Parker fell through a hole in the universe", and "Or: an AU where Nahida and Alhaitham met before canon started and it changed everything ". Other times, it can be a bit more of a specific description:

Tim's dad is dead, killed by a boomerang to the chest, and Tim is an orphan now. He knows Bruce would adopt him if needed but he couldn't possibly impose himself on the Wayne's more than he already has. It's okay though, because he has a plan for this, he just needs someone to play the role of his estranged "Uncle Eddie".

Except... the guy he hires is weirdly concerned about his well being and Tim can't figure out why.

Meanwhile, Jason Todd is forced to reevaluate his plans for his debut as Red Hood, because, as it turns out, his replacement is a suicidal idiot who can't be trusted to stay out of trouble.

OR

Tim Drake fails to recognize Jason Todd, back from the dead, and hires him to be his Uncle Eddie to avoid getting adopted by Batman. Somehow this ruins everyone's plans.

- The Best Laid Plans of Robins by Alleena_Pallatz

3. Vague one line explanation

Being able to keep it brief and witty in the description is honestly a great indicator of writing skill.

When Lestrade's go-to amateur detective finds himself stumped on a rather bloody case, John Watson suggests that they call the other one... The other what, though, remains to be seen.

- The Other One by ObsidianDissident

Even just:

The evolution of Tim, Lucy, and Tamara as they become a family.

- i'm coming home (tell the world) by hishn_greywalker

4. Any combination of the above

Seriously, scrolling through the fics in my recs, almost all of them follow the top 2, and the few ones remaining. I think the combination of quote from fic followed by an "Or: insert trope here" is the most common way to summarize, probably because it's so easy.

"What, you're telling me the great Batman couldn't stop a nine-year-old from sneaking out?" Green Lantern scoffed. "At least come up with a believable excuse." It was Batman's turn to scoff. "Like anyone else could do better. If you can keep Robin off the streets for a week, I'll buy you a Porsche."   AKA The JLA stages an intervention with Batman to get Robin off the streets. it goes downhill from there. - Adventures in Batsitting by raven_of_hydecastle

I hope this explanation with examples was able to show how simple it can be to make a really compelling summary once you've already written the fic.

I know "I'm bad at summaries" and "I'm bad at tags" are not sentiments to voice in the summary/tags of a fic. But, genuinely, I don't consider myself good at either. (This is background.)

The actual question is, how do I learn these? Especially tagging. My fandom background is sparse, at least far as participation in broader fandom culture is concerned, so I wasn't part of fandom when current tagging practices on AO3 evolved. It's difficult for me to grasp, and I suspect I end up treating the tags more like CWs than search terms as a result.

Great for people who want to filter out particular unpleasant elements. Not so great for people who can't find my fic because I didn't think to tag something someone else might see as obvious. I have severe social anxiety so joining e.g. a Discord to ask for help isn't really a viable option. Tagging fic isn't worth panic attacks.

Tagging fic isn't worth panic attacks.

100% agreed!

When it comes to being "good at tagging" that definition is going to vary from person to person. It will also vary depending on what your goal is.

I'm a fairly minimal tagger myself. I'll tag the fandom and the major characters, the general vibe (e.g. humour, smut etc) and then anything else I might think of. I don't personally like to tag smut fics with all of the various sex acts in them, but I've done it before because I thought I was supposed to. Since it doesn't really feel like "me" though I've since stopped doing that. If folks want to avoid my fic as a result, that's totally fair. If folks who would like it can't find it 🤷‍♀️ maybe it'll be a rec someday.

All that is to say that tagging is not a thing it's possible to be perfect at, so just aim for accomplishing whatever your goal is.

I get what you're saying, though. I wrote a fake dating fic once without tagging it as fake dating because I didn't realize that fake dating was a trope. It was only when a couple of friends started referring to it that I realized and added that tag to my fic.

One way to learn about those kinds of tropes is to pay attention when you see them tagged on other people's fics. You can browse through tags that are similar to ones you already use and see what else people add to their fics and whether those would work for yours or not.

You can also visit Fanlore! It's another project by the OTW (the people who run AO3) and it's a great resource for learning about fandom. You can look up a common tag like Alternate Universe, and it will give you examples of different types of AU and link out to pages that will link out to pages that will... you get the idea. It's wikipedia but for fandom stuff.

As for summaries, there are a lot of ways to go about that too. I'll let folks add ideas in the notes. The way I do it is that I include the name(s) of the major character(s), and outline the inciting incident for the fic. Since I post as I write, I might or might not tease something that happens later on (because I might or might not know yet).

The way to get good at doing it is just to keep practicing. When I was in university, I took a Russian Lit course where we had to write a summary of each novel in 200 words or less, 10 sentences or less - and semicolons were cheating. I did that 13 times in 8 months, and by the end of that I was really good at writing summaries. Add in the fact that I started posting fic back on FF.net where there was a character limit on summaries and you can see why I keep them pretty short.

That's another thing that you can analyze in others' fics, though. Find a summary that you think is well-written for whatever type of summary you like and then look at that author's other fics to see if you can spot a pattern to how they do it. Once you find the pattern, it's a lot easier to replicate it and then it's just a matter of repeating it until it feels natural.

[hermajestythesun]

okay so this is my theory as to why john and paul worked well as a duo bc yk. i’m obviously a psychic who knows everything and can make these assumptions despite seemingly minimal evidence…

- in paul’s case, we have an emotionally distant / abusive father who is unreliable and mother who had to overcompensate to support the men in her family (though this often meant being dismissive about emotional matters). his mother dies when he is 14 and he never gets any time to say goodbye. this destroys his already emotionally unstable father and forces paul into a parentified position. life becomes more about survival and maintenance than truly existing, feeling, and enjoying oneself. this makes paul appear cold and guarded, despite him being a heavy feeler. additionally, paul resents the masculinity he grows up with but ultimately does not know how to live without conforming to heteronormativity. this makes paul constantly battle his own desires and thoughts.

- john grows up without his father and surrounded by female figures. while aunt mimi is a dependable and loving caretaker, she is incredibly harsh and stern regarding certain matters, as well as tough and unyielding. he remains in contact with his erratic mother who is more like a friend than a familial figure, and she also dies when john is a teenager. so, despite having a guardian, john has to learn how to be independent and reliant on self. he also lacks strong masculine figures, and while dependent on women, he struggles to make a gendered identity for himself (keep in mind this is like the 50s). this combined with heavy childhood trauma results in somebody who wants to be better, but often lashes out violently and unpredictably.

together, the binaries of gender, love, and partnership got blurred in favor and benefit of the other:

- paul reestablished that maternal care john needed and missed. paul would help john cook, clean, calm down, and wake up without ever infringing upon john’s own autonomy. this was especially good for john because paul was NOT a woman. in fact, paul was younger than john and even looked up to john as a guiding figure. this wifely role taken on by paul as well as his “effeminate” display of manhood, fame, wealth, and partnership allowed john to feel like he had somebody he could be vulnerable with while not being controlled by that person.

- in fact, i would argue that john took on more of a parental role in many ways and served as an emotional regulator for paul. paul, who has a brain that moves a million miles per minute, often internally panics at any perceived threats (ex. regarding money, abandonment, etc). i think paul even struggles to understand his own feelings half of the time because of how regularly he had to suppress them. john hardly needed words to understand paul; instead, john was able to read paul in an almost intuitive way and understand paul’s actions for what they were rather than how paul wanted them to be understood (ex. john never buying into paul’s “oh im totally fine” act, and john knowing how to calm paul down even when paul seemed impossible). i don’t think john gets enough credit in this regard. for once, not only did paul now have somebody who was willing to do anything for him, protect him, defend him, stand up for others on his behalf, inspire him to be more independent, etc., but paul could exist and be understood in ways i doubt other people were able to do at all.

together, paul was able to play into the more feminine role he subconsciously took on and provide love to somebody who loved him back the same amount (if not more), and john was able to convey a more subdued masculine version of himself that was fully dependent on paul’s need for john’s affection and presence.

anyway. i have 0 evidence to provide for any of this tbh. it’s just kind of the vibe i get from things i see/read, and it’s a bit ballsy to make all of them assumptions without a true basis for them LOL. also i had ten minutes to write this so i apologize for any typos or weird sentences or whatever !!

[courfee]

James' POV of the beginning of chapter 16 from ritardando (wc: 1082)

James still can’t sleep, although now the reason for that has shifted far away from thinking about horror films.

Regulus has already drifted off long ago, nestled against James’ chest, breathing even and calm. His head is lying right above James’ heart and James can only hope that the loud thumping of it has helped Regulus calm down, not disturb him further.

Over the past hour (at least that’s how long it feels to James by now, he has no idea how much time really has passed) Regulus has only wrapped himself tighter around him. The hand slung around his torso has found its way underneath James’ shirt, now splayed out across his chest, and one of his legs is now tangled between James’. It’s making it very difficult to relax enough to sleep. James is going to be unbearably tired tomorrow, if he manages to fall asleep and then wake up at a reasonable time at all, his usual well-adjusted sleeping schedule already bruised from the full moon two nights ago.

Tentatively James moves the hand not trapped by Regulus lying on his arm and runs it through the hair of his sleeping pretend-boyfriend. Just a light touch, a careful movement, ready to pull back should it bother his well-needed sleep.

Regulus only gives a tiny sleepy noise, a reaction to the touch, but a pleased one.

James’ heart gives another jolt, the intimacy of the moment more than he knows how to keep contained in his chest. He breathes through it, trying to expand his body to make space for the feelings, and shifts his focus away from them towards Regulus, his fingers still gently brushing through the soft curls.

When he does finally fall asleep the sky outside has already started to grey.

James wakes up to someone trying to remove him from his comfortable sleeping position. Or his sleeping position from him. He isn’t sure and not enough here yet to figure it out. He thinks he should, though, and so, with a yawn, he tries to force his eyes open. It takes a few attempts. Everything is blurry, naturally, but he’s looked at Regulus enough times in the past two years to know him even without his glasses and with sleep still clouding his vision. “Morning, beautiful,” he mumbles, his voice not quite there yet.

“Hi,” Regulus replies. He sounds anxious, nearly panicked, so James ever so slightly props himself up on one arm and uses his now free hand to brush the hair out of Regulus’ face. It’s sleep-mussed, and James vaguely recalls having played with it too right before he fell asleep. Regulus had relaxed into his touch then, he thinks, though there aren’t any signs of that happening now too, just yet. Regulus still looks rather frozen. His eyes are wide, eyebrows raised, lips slightly parted. James traces all those features out with the tip of his finger, trying to smooth the anxious look off Regulus’ face.

He still doesn’t think it really works, but he also doesn’t really think in general, especially not with Regulus so close to him, his skin warm and soft under his touch. “I want to kiss you,” James mumbles. It’s also not something he thought about saying, though it’s a thought so deeply ingrained in his brain that there is no need to actively think it up anymore.

Regulus lets out a tiny noise then, something akin a whimper, then croaks, “You’re not properly awake yet, you’re not thinking clearly,” which only confirms James’ previous assessment of the situation.

“Yeah,” James agrees with a yawn. “Still want to kiss you though.”

Regulus opens his mouth, then closes it again and clears his throat. Thrice. Then he says, with clearly more thought than James is yet capable of, “This is fake. You’re pretending. I’m not your boyfriend. It’s not real.”

He should probably be thankful for Regulus doing the thinking for him, because this is a reminder he clearly needed. He lets himself fall back on the bed, only now that he’s letting go of him realising he’s had his arm wrapped around Regulus the entire time. “I know,” James says in answer to Regulus’ statement. He can’t find it in himself to hide the deep sigh of disappointment it draws from him.

It’s a rather rude awakening, quite literally. He’d forgotten, for a split moment. Or, maybe not forgotten, but rather simply not thought about. It was neither true nor false, simply unconsidered. A vague in between of disregard.

James blinks several times, then rubs the back of his hands across his eyes, trying to remove the last bit of sleep from his conscious. He really wishes he’d have had a longer night. One with more sleep and less thinking about Regulus. “Sorry for being so touchy, I didn’t mean to subject you to that,” he says, his voice still a little rougher than normal. He frowns. Wonders how much his subconscious has actually done during the night. Considering he fell asleep with Regulus lying half on top of him and woke up to spooning him, there clearly had been some shift in their sleep. “I hope I didn’t get too handsy last night.”

“You’re good, it’s all good,” Regulus says a little shrilly.

“Mm,” James hums, not fully convinced. “Guess I just haven’t gotten my normal quota of physical affection in a while, got to me a bit I think.” He feels a bit guilty about all of this. He wants to justify himself somehow, but doesn’t really think there is much justification to be had besides the truth. It makes him slip into his usual defence mechanism automatically, and then he is looking at Regulus with a smile that is supposed to be teasing and flirtatious but possibly overshooting it at this state of wakefulness, but it’s the best he can do at the moment. “It’s been four weeks since you kissed me, Reg, I’m getting needy over here.”

Regulus just stares at him, unmoving, silent. It makes James uneasy enough that even the flirtations seem an insufficient method to deal with this. “Sorry,” he says, the smile fading off his face. “But for the record, ‘cause I haven’t told you before,” he continues, because now that he’s started he feels worse not letting Regulus know in fear he might think James was making fun of him. “I did like your kiss. ‘twas nice.” And then, suddenly, Regulus is leaning forward and is kissing him again.

[kanaria-a]

❝Identity—that’s the identity of one’s tastes❞

in which, you and Deuce ride the same train everyday…

(modern)

The 7:43 AM express train had become as much a part of your daily routine as your morning coffee, yet you had never anticipated how a chance encounter would transform those mundane forty-three minutes into the most cherished portion of your day. It began on a Tuesday morning in October, when the usual rhythm of your commute was disrupted by an unexpected delay. The train car, typically half-empty at this early hour, was unusually crowded due to the previous service being cancelled. You found yourself standing in the aisle, gripping the metal handrail as the train swayed gently along the tracks, when a polite voice beside you caught your attention.

"Excuse me, would you like to take my seat?"

You turned to find yourself looking into the most sincere pair of bright cyan eyes you had ever encountered. The young man who had spoken possessed an earnest expression that seemed almost out of place in the cynical atmosphere of the morning commute. His navy blue hair was somewhat tousled, as though he had rushed to catch the train, and he wore a simple but well-fitted black jacket over dark jeans. There was something endearingly genuine about the way he stood, already beginning to rise from his seat before you had even responded. "Oh, that's very kind of you, but I'm perfectly fine standing," you replied, though you could not help but smile at his thoughtfulness. "Thank you, though."

He settled back into his seat, but continued to glance up at you with what appeared to be mild concern. "Are you sure? It's quite a long journey, and the train can get rather unsteady around the bend near Riverside Station." His consideration was so refreshingly authentic that you found yourself engaging in conversation rather than retreating behind your usual morning barrier of earbuds and averted gaze. "You seem to know this route quite well. Do you take this train often?" "Every weekday for the past six months," he replied with a sheepish smile. "I'm still getting used to the early schedule, to be honest. I'm Deuce, by the way. Deuce Spade."

You introduced yourself in return, and discovered that he was a first-year university student studying automotive engineering, while you were beginning your career at a downtown marketing firm. The conversation flowed with surprising ease, touching on everything from the reliability of the train schedule to your respective adjustments to early morning routines. As the train pulled into your station, you realized with genuine disappointment that the journey had passed far more quickly than usual. Deuce stood as well, shouldering a well-worn backpack, and you discovered that you shared not only the same train but the same destination. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow morning?" he asked hopefully as you both stepped onto the platform. "I'll be on the 7:43," you confirmed, and the bright smile that crossed his features made something flutter pleasantly in your chest.

True to your word, you found yourself scanning the train car the following morning, and felt an undeniable surge of pleasure when you spotted Deuce's familiar navy hair. He had saved the seat beside him with his backpack, and looked up with unmistakable relief when he saw you approaching. "Good morning," he said, quickly moving his bag to make room for you. "I was hoping you'd be here." This became your routine. Each morning, you would find Deuce waiting with a saved seat, and the two of you would settle into conversation as the train carried you toward the city. You learned that he was incredibly dedicated to his studies, often reviewing notes or working on assignments during the journey. He approached his coursework with the same earnest determination that seemed to characterize everything he did.

"I'm not naturally gifted like some of my classmates," he confided one morning, looking up from a particularly complex engineering diagram. "But I figure if I work twice as hard, I can achieve the same results." You found his honesty and work ethic admirable, and began looking forward to these daily conversations with an anticipation that surprised you. Deuce, you discovered, had a wonderfully genuine way of listening. When you mentioned a particularly challenging project at work, he would remember to ask about it days later. When you expressed frustration about a difficult client, he would offer thoughtful suggestions or simply provide a sympathetic ear. As the weeks passed, your conversations grew more personal. You learned that Deuce had not always been the studious, considerate young man you knew. He spoke, with evident embarrassment and regret, about a period in his adolescence when he had been quite different – more rebellious, less focused on his future. "I caused my mother a lot of worry," he admitted one particularly quiet morning, staring out the window at the passing landscape. "She never gave up on me, though. Even when I was at my worst, she believed I could be better. I'm trying every day to prove her right." The vulnerability in his voice touched something deep within you, and you found yourself sharing your own struggles – the pressure of starting a new career, the challenge of living independently, the occasional overwhelming nature of adult responsibilities. Deuce listened with the same careful attention he gave his textbooks, offering encouragement that felt both genuine and thoughtful.

"You're incredibly capable," he said one morning after you had expressed doubt about an upcoming presentation. "I can tell just from talking with you. You notice things, you think about problems from different angles, and you care about doing good work. Those aren't common qualities." The way he said it, with such conviction and sincerity, made you believe it yourself. Your friendship – for that was undoubtedly what it had become – continued to deepen throughout the autumn months. You began to anticipate not just the conversations, but the small details that made each journey unique. The way Deuce would always ensure you had the window seat when the morning sun was particularly bright. How he would quietly offer you half of whatever snack he had brought when you mentioned running late and skipping breakfast. The endearing habit he had of unconsciously straightening his posture whenever he was about to ask you a question he considered important.

By December, you realized that the highlight of your day was no longer the work you enjoyed or the evening plans you made, but those forty-three minutes on the 7:43 express train. The realization should have been alarming, but instead felt as natural and inevitable as the changing seasons. It was on a particularly cold morning in mid-December when everything shifted. The train was delayed due to weather conditions, and you found yourselves with nearly an hour together instead of the usual time. Deuce seemed more nervous than usual, frequently adjusting his jacket and glancing at you before looking away. "Is everything alright?" you asked, concerned by his uncharacteristic fidgeting. He took a deep breath, the kind that preceded important decisions. "Actually, I've been wanting to ask you something for quite some time now." His cheeks had taken on a slightly pink hue that was entirely charming. "I realize this might be presumptuous, and please feel free to say no if this makes you uncomfortable, but..." He paused, gathering his courage, and you found yourself holding your breath.

"Would you be interested in spending time together outside of our train rides? Perhaps we could meet for coffee, or dinner, or whatever you would prefer." The words came out in a rush, followed immediately by clarification. "As more than friends, I mean. I've found myself looking forward to seeing you every morning more than I probably should, and I thought perhaps... well, I hoped you might feel similarly." The sincerity in his expression, the careful way he had phrased his request to ensure you felt no pressure, the obvious importance this held for him – it all combined to make your answer the easiest decision you had made in months. "I would like that very much," you replied, and watched as relief and joy transformed his features. "Really?" he asked, as though he could not quite believe his good fortune. "Really," you confirmed, pulling out your phone with a smile. "Perhaps you should have my number, though. Just in case the trains are ever cancelled."

As Deuce carefully entered your contact information into his phone, his expression one of careful concentration and barely contained happiness, you reflected on how perfectly this moment encapsulated who he was – thoughtful, genuine, and entirely worth the early morning commute that had brought you together.

i barely posted at ALL yesterday, nd i think i’m having withdrawals

[crochetedblorbos]

"I am not a who, Archivist. I am a what. A who requires a degree of identity I can't ever attain."

Character Name: Michael Shelley | The Distortion

Fandom: The Magnus Archives [podcast]

Voiced By: Luke Booys

Yarn Used: Shoes - CraftSmart Value - Reef Trousers - Loops & Threads Soft Classic - Light Pink Shirt - CraftSmart Value - Fiesta Skin - Loops & Threads Classic - Peach Hair - Loops & Threads Classic - Soft Yellow Mouth - CraftSmart Value - White

Basic pattern here.

When I originally put Michael on this list, I was specifically thinking of the version from “Awake and Unafraid” by @blasphemous-lies-and-deceit, but when I actually got to him I knew I had to do the actual Distortion version. So, sorry about that, maybe I’ll do the Michael Shelley version later…

Anyway. Michael was a lot of fun to do, for a lot of reasons, one of which is that I knew if he came out looking wonky I could point out that he was supposed to be distorted, so it was fine. Luckily for me, he came out exactly how I wanted! He varies from the base pattern as follows:

Shoes: Fan artists always draw him with long pointy shoes, and often floating or seeming to float, so I decided not to do the boots/shoes I usually do. I also decided that, since Michael belongs to the Spiral, I would, well, crochet him in a spiral rather than joining at the end of each row and chaining one! So, to start off each leg, I chained 2, then: R1: 6sc in second ch from hook, tighten (6 sc). R2: 2dc in each st around (12 dc). R3: Sc in front loop of each st around (12 sc). R4-7: Sc in each st around (12 sc). R8: (Sc in first st, dc in next st) around (6 sc, 6 dc).

Trousers: I mostly did these the normal way, except that they were only 12 stitches around rather than 15. For the first round after joining the trouser color to the shoe color, I did the inverse of R8 (dc in first st, sc in next st), then just did straight sc all the way up until I decided they were long enough. I didn’t count rounds really. I wanted it to be a little uncanny.

Shirt: I was really, really, REALLY excited about this. I wasn’t sure how a variegated yarn would work up in this case, but evidently having made him, essentially, six stitches skinnier than usual at the start made this yarn spiral perfectly. I did the tunic exactly how I usually do the torsos, just skinnier; the only other variant, apart from continuing in the spiral pattern, is that I did visible decreases instead of invisible ones. They’re still not super noticeable, but I figured for the Distortion, it would make sense to have these jarring “wait, he visibly got smaller there” stitches.

Head: I did his head in fours instead of sixes to make it longer and skinnier, and I think that worked out well. I also did his nose as a cluster stitch rather than a puff stitch—(yo, draw loop through st, yo, draw loop through first 2 loops on hook) three times, then yo and draw through all loops on the hook—and I think it made it enough of a noticeable variant from usual that it was good. I also discovered that crocheting in a spiral rather than the join-and-chain method, while it does eliminate the ladder at the back of the scalp, makes the rows just uneven enough that it’s slightly noticeable the eyes don’t line up. Which, again, works well for the Distortion. I also didn’t do his scalp in the hair color, but as thick as his hair is, you can’t really tell.

Mouth: I wanted an uncanny valley “too big for his face” kind of grin, so I doubled the yarn and knotted it, then embroidered what I hope came out looking like sharp teeth. I don’t know why I always headcanon Michael with sharp teeth. Maybe it’s the fanart. Anyway, it’s sufficiently unsettling, I think.

Arms: Look at these hands. I am so damn proud of these hands. They’re different, partly by accident and partly by design, but that really adds to the feel, doesn’t it? The pattern was more based on vibes than actual counting necessarily, but basically, I chained 4, turned, sc in second st from hook, sc in next two chs, and then made the fingers by chaining until they felt long enough, turning, and slip stitching down the inside of the chain until I reached the foundation stitches, then added another sc and repeated. Pretty sure it was 4-6-7-9 for one hand, but I didn’t really pay attention to what I did for the other.

I then joined the shirt yarn to the foundation chain, 3sc in first st, sc in next st, 3sc in next st, sc in next st, for a total of 8 sc around to form the cuffs. Then I just…spiraled up, eight stitches at a time, no increases or decreases, until the arms were long enough. I attached them slightly lower on the body than I normally would, but only slightly.

[hedgehogsaretheultimatelifeform]

Your/Name: Out

Your/Name: In (Part 1)

Yandere!Self Aware!Russell Adler x F!Reader

Warnings for: Imprisonment, threat of brainwashing, self-injury (brief), implied threats of violence

Adler and his beloved have slightly different ideas of what protection looks like. She finds a way to escape, and he's going find a way to follow her.

Note: the self-injury warning refers to Adler briefly pricking his skin with a knife to show that he bleeds. That is all.

You couldn’t tell how long you’d been in the hotel room. One of the first things you’d actually asked Adler for was a clock, but you’d quickly found out that it didn’t work, due to the whole ‘you-are-perpetually-stuck-in-one-moment-in-time’ thing.

Even without it, you’d managed to put together a kind of routine, as even though time wasn’t literally passing, you were sure perceiving that it was.

Your ‘day’ started with you both ‘sleeping’, now defined as lying in bed in the dark for a bit, as neither of you actually slept. Adler would get up first, restoring light to the room as he conjured up some activity for the two of you to bond over, which you would half-heartedly try, for lack of anything else to do. Really, all they could do was remind you what a poor facsimile this digital world was; or at least the one Adler was creating inside this room.  

Though, you could hardly call it a room any more. As Adler added more and more stuff to try and get you to like him, to forgive him for kidnapping you, the room had gotten bigger and bigger. At this point, it was more akin to an open floor plan mansion than a hotel room. It was so big, you could actually walk far enough away from him that he would lose track of you, even if it was only for a few moments.

He always came and found you annoyingly quickly, which was rather putting a damper on your plans to escape. As… nice as he had been, you couldn’t stay inside your computer with a rogue program, AI, whatever he was, forever.

You’d put your time to good use, at least. Instead of making life-long plans for this room, you spent your time working out how this world worked. You had some passing knowledge of video game mechanics, and once you started to think about the world in those terms, it had all started to click.

The guy in the front of the hotel had been a random NPC asset Adler had just placed behind the desk for that individual moment; almost certainly an enemy asset torn out of a random mission with no dialogue or personality assigned to him, hence his blank face and lacking response when you and Adler had passed him by.

Whenever Adler was creating things for the room, it took time, and something that looked suspiciously like a load bar would appear where he was staring off into space. As for the thing itself, at first, you would see a box covered in a warped, repeating texture, that would periodically jump into higher and higher detail, aka resolution, until it reached completion, and then you would see the full asset, just like you would if you were waiting for it to load in while playing a game.

Your most alarming discovery had been that the room had a memory limit. As more things were added, the things you’d used least would disappear. This had created an additional challenge for you, as you now had to regular check on your possessions to keep them, and do so without Adler noticing.

He had struck lucky on a couple of items you’d liked. Your favourite book, a denim jackets you loved the feel of. Not that you were going to tell him any of that. He didn’t need to know anything about you, especially that you had his car keys in your possession.

You’d picked them up off his beside table once you’d figured he’d safely forgotten about them. He wouldn’t worry about not seeing them, as he had no intention of going anywhere, and if he did, he would be able to just create new ones. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t gone looking for them, letting you keep them tucked away in your bedside table drawer.

You were itching to check on them, to make sure they were still there, but Adler was too close by. He was cooking in the kitchen he’d set up, still trying to trick you into telling him all of your favourite foods.

Eating here was a strange experience. You would get the sensation of the food in your mouth, chewing it as you tasted the deliciousness of whatever it was, and the second you swallowed it, it vanished. It was like, once you couldn’t see it, it no longer mattered, so it disappeared.

God, you missed real food. You were willing to admit, begrudgingly, that for all his faults, Adler could cook. But he had never needed to eat, so whatever he made was just about the momentary sensory experience, rather than sustenance.

One more reason you needed to get out of here.

You sighed, standing up from the bed as you glanced around the room, trying to spot whatever new thing was on the schedule for today.

“Don’t go far…” Adler called out as you passed him, still not quite comfortable with your habit of wandering aimlessly through the open room. “Food’s almost ready.”

You nodded and kept walking, placing your hand on one of the walls, fingernails trailing against the paint as you followed it around in search of the door.

With the constant remodels, the door seemed to move every five minutes. Adler seemed to not mind, as, again, he wasn’t planning on leaving. You were, and you were endlessly annoyed by its movement. Now, you had to work out a way to get away from him that would give you enough time to find the door, run back down the corridor to the lobby, get outside, get into the car, and hope that driving it would be as simple as inserting the key and turning the steering wheel, as all good video game driving is, that the route back to the safe house would be obvious; and that that would then leave you with enough time once you were in the safehouse to figure out how you could get out again.

When you laid it all out, it wasn’t a good sounding plan. A lot of it relied on luck and assumption, but you had to try.

The biggest issue was how quickly Adler could find you. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but think that the whole ‘him searching the room for you’ was just a cover to make you feel relaxed, and that he actually always knew where you were.

You told the voice in the back of head narrating your inevitable doom to shut up and glanced over your shoulder. You’d paused between two very full wardrobes, part of Adler trying to impart his taste for finer things on you. Now, they provided a perfect gap for you to see him turning his head away, failing to hide that he’d been watching you the entire time.

Fuck.

You almost kept walking, but your gut was suddenly telling you something was off. You took a couple of steps forward, reaching the other side of one of the wardrobes, looking at the room closer.

The sneaky bastard. He’d rearranged everything in the room to radiate out from the bed, so you’d never be out of his line of sight.

It’s like he could read your mind, and part of you was beginning to seriously suspect that he could.

You shook your head, and kept walking. Being in here was driving you crazy. If you didn’t get out before much longer, you’d end up in a nest of paranoia, losing touch with your own identity.

Then, maybe his tongue would slip, and he’d start calling us Bell, the small intrusive voice in the back of your head says.

You told it to shut up again, before admitting defeat and walking over to your star gazing corner. 

The title made it sound nicer than it is. Entirely based on the fact that you’d stopped and looked up at the sky when you’d left the safehouse, back when you were controlling bell through your keyboard and mouse like you should be doing, Adler had made one of the corners of the room into a  stargazing nook, AKA some cushions on the floor surrounded by curtains that blocked out enough light to allow you to see a star map projected on the ceiling.

You sat, squinting up at the faint lines drawn across the white plaster. They were so faint, they were barely there. If you’d not spent hours (or what felt like hours) here memorising the aesthetic constellations, you would doubt that there was anything there at all. The curtains surrounding you had definitely lost some of their opaqueness now that he was keeping a closer eye on you. 

You glanced over your shoulder, and saw him making his way towards you, mockingly weaving his path around various objects, like he didn’t have a direct path to you.

What would he do to you if he caught you trying to escape? He’d implied that he wasn’t against doing what he’d done to Bell on you, even after claiming that he didn’t have the necessary equipment to do it. 

After which, he’d taken great pride in showing you how he could manipulate the world around him and create whatever he wanted at will. 

You blinked back some small tears again as he pushed the curtain aside, and your next breath filled your lungs with the smell of BBQ ribs.

“Can I join you?”

“Yeah.” You nod, shuffling to one side as he sat beside you, balancing the plate on his knee. How he grilled in an enclosed space without suffocating both of you was a mystery. 

“You come over here a lot.” He broke the silence, as you continued to stare up at the faint lines.

“I guess so.” You slowly reach out for the plate of ribs, slowly gnawing the meat off the bone as he smiled, watching carefully for your reaction. 

They were good, and you hated it. Sweet smoky flavour bursting across your tongue, punctuated by the strange feeling of food disappearing from your throat when you swallow. 

“What do you think?”

“They’re good.” You nodded, setting the bone aside and watching it vanish. 

He smiled again, taking one for himself this time.

You didn’t reach for a second, instead resuming staring at the ceiling. 

“Is something wrong?” He looks up at you again. 

“No. Well…” You hesitate as an idea comes to your mind. “There’s… maybe something.”

“What?” He sat up, ready to fix whatever was making you sad. Or, whatever creature comfort you could pretend was. If he really cared, he’d let you go home. He didn’t care. He was selfish, and wanted to keep you here for himself.

“It’s just… these stars aren’t accurate.” You point at one. “That’s the southern cross there, and next to it is Cygnus, which is only visible in the Northern Hemisphere.” 

You hoped that you were remembering that right, or that he didn’t know anything about stars.

“Not accurate, huh…” He nodded slowly, looking where you’d pointed, before turning back to you. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about all this, really.”

And there’s you, getting lucky. 

“Do you?”

“I… I know a bit.” You mumbled. Enough to bullshit off, at least. 

“Maybe… you could teach me?” 

You glanced back at him. “I suppose I could… but how?”

“I’ll put something in.” He stood up, the plate of ribs vanishing as he forgot about them. “A sky light, so we can see the real ones, or… an observatory.”

“Is that not a bit too much?” Your heart is pounding. This is actually working. Your random, spontaneous idea is working.

“Nothing is too much for you.” He reached down and pulled you to your feet, guiding you out of the curtained corner. “Go on and rest, so it can be a surprise.”

“Okay…” You lingered for a moment as he turned back, ready to do whatever it is he does while creating things. To you, it just looks like he’s staring off into the distance. “Thank you.”

Your words caught him off guard, for just a moment. He glanced back and smiles, then his eyes glazed over, and he appears to be staring blankly at the wall. 

You hurried back to the bed, suddenly thankful for the direct paths, dropping to your knees as you opened the drawer to see it the key was still there. 

It was. Thank Christ.

You glanced back towards him, still unmoving in the far corner.

It’s something else that catches your eye.

The door is on the wall right next to you, where it was originally before the room grew to its current unbelievable proportions.

If that’s not a sign…

You tucked the car keys into your jeans pocket, pulled on your boots and quietly left the room, shutting the door very gently behind you.

The corridor outside is so dark compared to the room it takes your eyes a minute to adjust. You walked speedily down it, splitting the difference between moving quietly and moving fast, all the while glancing back towards the room. 

Nothing happened by the time you reach the empty lobby. The door hasn’t opened, Adler hasn’t appeared, so you broke into a run as you left the building. 

You easily identified Adler’s car, by it being the only one parked in the bays in front of the building.

Overhead, it’s still nighttime. The same sky from when you arrived here, as Adler said, frozen, suspended in time without your input.

How exactly you were going to use that knowledge to get yourself out of here, you didn’t know yet, but you had this gut feeling that you had to get back to the safe house, to the mission board. It’s where you had been when this all started, and it was the main way Bell, via your input, moved the campaign along. There had to be something there.

The car started automatically when you got into it. No key, no ignition necessary. As soon as you touched the steering wheel, the engine purred, and you slowly reversed out of the parking space. Despite the gear shift visible next to you, you only had two pedals: an accelerator, and a break/reverse. Just like how the cars in Warzone worked.

Despite your driving track record in game, you were able to get out of the carpark and back onto the narrow road that cut a path straight back to the safehouse.

In fact, when you looked closer, the roads didn’t even continue on beyond where you were driving. They just… ended, as there’d never been a need to generate more road, since no one was ever supposed to see them. In theory, no one should have been able to leave the level box of the safe house, but Adler had shown that he at least clearly could surpass those things.

After a few minutes, you pulled up in front of the safe house. You didn’t bother parking nicely, just got out, leaving the engine running and the door hanging open. Every second counted, given that you were running on a vague hope that you would be able to find The Thing that would let you out of here.

You pushed open the door, eyes flicking about the room. Nothing had changed. The safehouse still looked like it always did in the pre-Cuba briefing. Hudson was endlessly talking on the phone. Woods and Mason were speaking quietly over some gear in the back of their van. Lazar and Sims were no-where to be seen, but their voices could be heard deeper inside the safehouse. Park was in the office, talking to someone. 

Someone who wasn’t here. You paused, and looked down at the floor.

You remembered this. In this briefing, Hudson had his little round up, then everyone split off, and Park took Adler off into the office to have a word. 

She hands him a file, and, as they walk, a piece of paper hinting at what they’d done to Bell falls out. 

It’s there now. 

You grabbed it from where it lay on the floor, eyes skating over the familiar words as you hurried over to the mission board, pages fluttering under the nearby fan. 

No one seems to react to your presence. That was Adler’s job, of course. He would keep tabs on Bell depending on the answers you gave. But he wasn’t here. 

You started at the board, fighting back the helpless feeling of doom, suppressing the voice in the back of your head that was ranting on about how you didn’t know what you were doing, why did you even try, he was going to catch you and he wouldn’t be as nice this time. 

You shook your head and looked down at the page in your hands again. The sides were already crinkled as you gripped it tightly, lifting it closer to your face. The movement happened to place the page between your face, and a particularly bright desk lamp. Suddenly, clear as day on the page, one of the letters was glowing orange. 

You lowered it. The glowing stopped. You raised it again, and it returned. 

That had to be something. There was nothing out there that could top sheer dumb luck. 

You tore the glowing ‘I’ out from the page and pinned it to the board. Then, one by one, you pulled the other documents down, and held them up to the light, too.

Page by page, more letters appeared.  

Torn paper was scattered about your feet as you stared at the letters, pinned up in the random order you’d found them. You’d started with an I, now you had an A, an E, three Os, two Ts, a W, an H, an M and an N, and a G.

All the letters you needed to spell out the only real thought you’d had for weeks.

“I… want… to… go… home.” You read out as you lay out the letters in the right order. As soon as you’d put the E in place, the torn pieces of paper flashed bright orange, and were replaced by a glowing text box, like the one you’d seen before. The ‘Press to enter’ that you had gotten into this mess in the first place.

You reached for it, breath held, almost waiting for someone to stop you.

No one did. Your fingers hit the warm fuzzy pixels, and you gasped as the tingling warmth spread rapidly through your body. You looked down at your hands, and realised that you’re now glowing the same orange colour.

Adler sees it too as he slams the door open, tumbling into the safehouse covered in mud and leaves, half a second too late. 

When he calls out your name, you’re already gone. 

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

“Fuck, that hurt…” You mumbled as you slid out of your desk chair and onto the floor, after slamming into it face first.

Wait… your chair. Your floor. You were back home. 

You sprung up and looked around you. Yes, you were back in your crappy apartment, that you’d never been so happy to see.

You’d done it. By sheer luck, you’d done it. Whatever strange nightmare that had been, that your favourite video game character had gained sentience and pulled you into the game was over, soon to be forgotten. 

You immediately turned back to your computer, closing the game and ejecting the disk. You snapped it, dropping to the pieces to the floor as adrenaline surged through you and you yanked your whole PC from the wall, half dropping half placing it on the floor as you ripped the cover off, tearing out components one by one until you got to the hard drive, which you carried to your storage cupboard, wrapped in a tea towel and raised a hammer over it.

You took in a deep breath, then brought the hammer down on it, over and over, until it was in lots of little shiny pieces; your flat’s quiet hours be damned. 

When you slowed, you took a deep breath, the adrenaline slowly tapering out of your system as you unwrapped the towel and poked the broken pieces with the hammer, relaxing as you took in the surprisingly easy destruction.

Whatever he had been, rogue code, a ghost, a spirit, he, it wasn’t getting to you ever again. 

You took the broken pieces back to your room, and crammed it along with everything else and the broken disc back into the PC frame, balancing it awkwardly in your arms as you left your flat and took the stairs down to the bins in the garage.

You hefted it over the edge of the big commercial general waste bin, relishing in the cracking sound of things breaking further on the heavy landing. All gone, ready to be buried in the avalanche of black bags tomorrow would bring.

It was hardly the proper way to dispose of electronics, but it was the fastest way to get it completely out of your life.

Part of you felt that that should have been harder. You had just thrown a couple thousand quid that you spent less than six months ago out without a second thought.

Another part of you felt that it was a small price to pay for freedom.

Besides, you could save up again. Most of your games were tied to your steam account, and could easily be downloaded to a new computer. And, by the time you saved up, it would have been time to upgrade anyway. 

It’s not like there had been anything important on there. That had been exclusively your gaming computer. Everything important you kept on your old laptop hard drive.

You could easily redo save data. Besides that, what had you really lost?

Maybe this whole thing was some kind of sign you should spend less time playing video games in general.

You slowly mounted the last flight of stairs back up to your apartment. 

Whatever you did, he was gone. The system he lived in was destroyed. 

You’d never know how much time you’d lost there, mentally at least, as your phone declared you’d only been gone a couple of hours. 

Whatever had caused that difference, as you didn’t understand enough about physics to make even an educated guess like time dilation or some equally smart sounding thing. 

All that aside, you were free. And, you were going to do whatever it took to stay that way, even if it meant you had to give up video games forever.

You paused just inside the door of your flat when you entered it again. It felt like you were looking over the place with fresh eyes, over the things you’d taken for granted, the petty annoyances you’d gotten used to, the issues you’d gotten sick of chasing your landlord over.

That the kitchen was tiny, and you could barely move in it, that you didn’t have space for a living room- hell, the entire flat was just too damn small. You had a kitchen, a dining room slash hallway, a bedroom slash office and a bathroom. 

You’d basically only moved here because the rent had been cheap. You’d been desperate to save money. Not quite live with mould desperate, but enough to live in two and a half rooms for over four years.

Across those years, that rent had increased. Slowly, to be sure, but if you objectively looked at how much you were paying now, you would almost certainly be able to afford a nicer place for the same amount.

Maybe nicer, if you moved out of the inner city. That had been the other benefit, that it was basically around the corner from your job. One you’d left ages ago in favour of a fully remote position.  

Maybe this was a wake-up call for your entire life. You needed to start doing better by yourself. Get back into an in-person role, or at least hybrid so you’d get regular human contact other than the delivery guy, or your cat sitter needing neighbour. You should move to a bigger place, with a kitchen that you actually liked being in, so you would use it, not the one where you had to swap your microwave and toaster around constantly depending on which you needed. 

Maybe, you could finally start writing that book you’d wanted to, or make your own games. 

You took a deep breath, and decided. All those things you’d put off, you were going to do them. Maybe not tomorrow, but you were going to get yourself to them sooner rather than later. 

And, you ask yourself as you walked through your apartment, tiny and mundanely normal, what is a better first step than a good night’s sleep?

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

You’d done it. They’d called you back, and the promotion was yours. You were bursting with excitement, but you couldn’t just burst out and tell everyone on the bus. That might be a little weird. Instead, you would have to wait until you could tell Buster, your excitable old Irish wolfhound. You’d tell your friends, your family tomorrow, once you’d signed the contract signed, something about counting chickens before they hatch, you know?

The bus rumbled around the corner and onto your street, so you pressed the button and slid up out of your seat, carefully walking down the aisle as the driver slowed to a stop. You thanked her, and stepped down into the bright evening air, retrieving your house keys as the bus rolled away behind you. 

It still didn’t sound real to you, that you had house keys. When did the feeling of accomplishment wear off, you wonder, that you’d managed to buy a house? 

Maybe it never did, especially when it marked such a major milestone in your personal growth after that strange, distant night you’d had in your old apartment. 

Over the past couple of years, you’d gone back and forth over what had really happened. Had it simply been a dream, or had it been real? The day after, you’d woken up thinking it was a bizarre nightmare, only to find your PC gone, and irretrievable from the bin you’d thrown it in the previous night. 

There was a logical part of you that said of course it wasn’t real, but a deep, instinctive part of you still reacted harshly whenever someone so much as mentioned Call of Duty, let alone his name. Not that that was a frequent issue, but it happened occasionally, when you were on the bus, or out in the city in the weekend, or your co-workers were complaining about how they couldn’t get their kids to put it down.

You chuckled, turning up your empty drive and walking up to your door.

You didn’t notice the lights were on inside until you’d unlocked the door.

You were sure you’d turned those off. You did every morning, given how expensive electricity was here. 

Who was in your house?

You pushed the door open, peering in. Buster’s cheerful yip came from the kitchen, and his head appeared in the door, but he didn’t come to greet you. 

The smell of cooking meat hit your nose next, which you followed, almost in a trance to the kitchen door, to see who was there.

It was him.

Russell Adler was in your kitchen. 

He was using your pans, cooking your food. He had your dog sat at his feet waiting for scraps.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. He’s not real, he wasn’t real.

You were dreaming. 

You had to be.

You dropped your bag, rolling your sleeve up so you could pinch your arm.

It didn’t work. Again. When you opened your eyes, he was still there.

But now he had seen you. It was too late to turn around and walk back out the door. 

“Hey.” He said softly. Like he hadn’t invaded your home.

“Heel.” You stated, firmly. 

“What…” he trailed off as he realised you weren’t talking to him. 

Buster looked at you a bit reproachfully, but came to heel. 

Adler watched, shoulders shrinking like he’d only just realised that maybe he should have knocked and waited outside.

“Uh… I just want to talk.” He gestured to the mess around him, the oven full of trays behind him. “Thought we might….”

“You presumed.” You finally responded to him. “Leave.”

“Don’t you want to know how…”

“No.” 

He almost took a step towards you, but caught himself. “Please? We’re on your side of it, your turf now.”

“Yeah, it’s my fucking house!” You snap.

“And… the reality. I can’t control anything here, so it’s fair. Please, I just want to talk.”

He glanced towards your dining toom. You leant back to see what he was looking at. 

Places laid for two. Candlelight.

Ugh. Where those roses?

“What do you think is going to happen?” You snap back. “You’re not staying.”

“I mean…” he looked back at you, the familiar harsh authority creeping back over his face. “How are you going to get rid of me?” 

“What?” You swallowed, fighting the urge to try and run.

“I don’t exist, legally. No birth certificate, social security… nothing. I’m a ghost, and I can disappear like one too. Who are you going to call about that?”

“I’d consider it if you’d just be normal.” You snapped back. “It’s ‘oh, I just want to talk,’ but when you don’t immediately get your way, you threaten me. You haven’t changed one bit.”

“I… I’ve changed. You should have seen me when I first came out. Woke up in a landfill, stormy night, no idea where I was or what had happened. No idea where you were.” He took a breath, leaning back on the counter. “I was furious with you. You’d said you wouldn’t stop playing, but you had, and not only that, you’d thrown me away, you’d tried to kill me! To smash me to pieces with a hammer!”

“Can’t kill something that’s not alive.”

“Is this alive enough for you?” He picked up a knife and pressed the tip into the palm of his hand. Your eyes widened as you watched the blood well up from the tiny cut, slowly dribbling out over his palm.

“What…” How the fuck was he alive, made of flesh and blood. Real in every sense of the word.

“I’m as real as you are.” He smiled. “And, you were right. It’s so much better like this.”

“What?” 

“Being real!” He stood up and walked towards you, trying to grab your hands. 

You took a step backwards, and Buster finally moved in between you and him, growling. Better late than never.

“I mean… look at all this. The food, the air, the stars… it’s better than I could have ever imagined.” He sighed, crouching down and running his hand over Buster’s fur, immediately calming him down. “You even kept yourself busy, setting all this up for us.” 

“It’s for me.” 

He sighed, straightening up again. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Did I not make myself clear?” He stepped closer to you as Buster scurried back into the kitchen. “You aren’t getting rid of me. You ran away, so I followed you, and now I’m here, and I’m flesh and blood, so you can’t throw me away again. That’s more of a crime than improper disposal of household electronic goods.” 

“Try me.”

“I am.” He suddenly raised his hands, caught himself, and lowered them. “I am offering you a chance to start over, when we’re on more equal footing. Give us a proper go.”

“Equal? You think I’m going to let you live here, sponging off my paycheque?”

“No, no, of course not. I have a job. Fifty-fifty, we could split it.”

“How do you have a job if you don’t have a social security number?”

“I worked for the CIA. I can make a false identity.” He glanced down at his hands, moving restlessly at his side. “You aren’t a little bit flattered that I’ve defied known physics and digital mechanics for you?”

“No.” 

“Can you try to be? I still remember all those things you said about me.”

“You… shouldn’t be flattered.”

“Well, I am.” He glanced back into the kitchen as a timer dinged. “How about that dinner, huh?” 

“Why?” 

“Why, what?”

“Why dinner?” 

“I mean… why not? It’s what people do when they’re getting to know each other. And, food is so good now that I can actually eat it.”

You stare at him.

“I made steak.”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Okay.” You kicked your shoes off and walked into the dining room. Buster followed you, settling on his bed as you moved the candles aside. The flowers were roses. You pushed them aside, too. “Okay.” 

“Really?” Adler hovers in the doorway.

“It’s not like you’re going to leave, is it?”

“No. I won’t.” 

That confirmed your worst fear. You folded your hands, waiting expectantly. “Then, okay, we do it over. But, we do it properly. Get to know each other, different bedrooms, all that. Until I’m ready.”

“Until you’re ready.” He echoed. “I promise.”

He disappeared back into the kitchen, and Buster slowly walked up to your side.

“Hey buddy…” You rubbed behind his traitorous ears. “Wanna bet how long it takes him to break that promise?”

Buster didn’t answer. Instead, he stared up with eyes that said ‘I want left over steak please.’ You smiled, and sat back up. You wouldn’t give him until the end of this dinner, not that it mattered. While Adler had been out chasing a dream, you’d been keeping yourself busy. You’d survived him once, and you would do so again. Playing along was just the first step.

[clownskribbles]

The most recent wings that I've made for myself! They were a bit of a follow up on the last pair, in the 'can I make a pair of wings that doesn't require months of work' category. Specifically I wanted to explore if I could make the feathered wing process and quicker, and I think it went pretty well! They have a nice weight in motion, and I finally figured out how to sew on feathers by machine rather than having to do each one individually by hand...

[leonawriter]

Akako tries, yet again, to spell Kaito into loving her.

She starts with sticking a talisman onto the inside of Kaito's uniform jacket, which should make him focus only on her. But of course, Kaito being who he is, this is entirely ineffective. Not to mention he finds it a short while later, figures out who put it there (if not the exact purpose, which he can guess anyway by how she's been acting) and sticks it on Hakuba instead.

Hakuba, he figures, could do with focusing on something - or someone - other than Kid. This is fine and good, they all win!

Except then Akako activates the second half of the spell, which is supposed to make the person wearing the talisman confess their feelings to the one they've been thinking of so much.

The problem for Akako is that Kaito is no longer the one wearing the talisman.

The problem for Kaito is that the talisman had been set up so that it would make the wearer think only of the person who had placed it onto them. Not specifically Akako.

So, the moment Akako activates the second spell... instead of Kaito confessing his undying devotion to Akako...

Hakuba Saguru admits, rather loudly, in the middle of a heist, that he's in love with Kaitou Kid.

He doesn't remember much more than that, thanks in part due to Kid having knocked him out the moment he realised what was going on (and afterwards spent a considerable amount of time trying to tell Akako off for messing with people's feelings again). The Task Force assumes he was either Kid in disguise, or blackmailed into it by someone.

Kaito assumes that Akako's red magic just worked on Hakuba as intended, and felt bad about the whole thing.

Hakuba, meanwhile, is mortified as to how he suddenly had such low self-control as to blurt out things he's been so very carefully keeping safely hidden for over a year, now.

[glowettee]

✧・゜: how i'm using this season to shed old identities that no longer serve me :・゜✧:・゜✧

hey lovelies! ✨mindy here!

i've been sitting on my little balcony this morning, watching the sunrise with my iced matcha, thinking about how summer always feels like nature's permission slip to reinvent ourselves. there's something about the longer days and warmer air that makes everything feel possible, you know? like we can finally shed the heavy coats of who we've been pretending to be.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ realizing i've been wearing masks ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

honestly? i had this moment last week where i was getting ready for a friend's party and literally tried on seven different outfits, not because they didn't fit but because i kept thinking "does this look like me?" and then i had this weird breakdown moment where i was like… wait, who even is "me" anymore?

i realized i've been cycling through different versions of myself for different people - the perpetually positive girl, the aesthetic overachiever, the one who never needs help, the girl who has it all figured out. it's exhausting trying to maintain all these identities when deep down i just want to exist without the pressure of being consistent with who i was yesterday.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ summer as a season of shedding ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

i've been thinking about snakes a lot lately (stay with me lol). they shed their entire skin when they outgrow it, and there's something so beautiful about that natural process of release. summer feels like the perfect time for us to do the same.

i started making a list of identities i've outgrown but have been clinging to:

the girl who says yes to everything because she's afraid of disappointing people

the perpetual optimizer who can't enjoy anything without trying to improve it

the one who needs everyone to like her (this one's been the hardest to let go of tbh)

the person who derives all her worth from productivity and achievement

these old skins have been suffocating me, and i didn't even realize how much until i started consciously peeling them away.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ my gentle shedding rituals ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

i've been creating little rituals to help me release these old identities, and it's been kind of magical? here's what's been working for me:

morning journaling where i write from the perspective of my authentic self rather than who i think i should be (sometimes i literally don't know what to write and that's telling)

a social media cleanse where i unfollowed accounts that make me feel like i need to perform a certain version of myself (cut my following list in half and my anxiety improved immediately)

practicing saying things like "i don't know" and "i changed my mind" without offering explanations or apologies (terrifying at first but gets easier)

creating a "permission slip box" where i write down things i'm allowing myself to be/do/feel that the old me would have rejected (currently on my nightstand and it's getting fuller every day)

asking myself "whose voice is this?" whenever i hear that critical inner monologue (turns out most of my inner critic speaks in borrowed voices)

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ growing pains & gentle reminders ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

can i be honest? this shedding process isn't always pretty. there have been days where i've slipped back into people-pleasing or perfectionism because those old identities feel safe. there have been moments where i've felt completely lost without my usual masks to hide behind.

but i'm learning that this discomfort is part of the process. that weird in-between stage where you've outgrown who you were but haven't fully become who you're meant to be? that's where the magic happens. that's where we get to play and experiment and figure out what actually feels true.

i keep reminding myself that authenticity isn't a destination, it's a practice. and summer, with its forgiving warmth and abundant light, feels like the perfect container for this messy, beautiful transformation.

so i'm curious… what identities are you outgrowing this summer? what parts of yourself are you ready to shed? sometimes naming them is the first step to letting them go.

sending you all the courage to become more of who you really are.

xoxo, mindy 🤍

p.s. if you're feeling brave, write down an identity you're shedding on a piece of paper and bury it in your garden or a potted plant. let something new grow in its place. (i did this with "perfect girl" last week and i swear my lavender plant is thriving)

click here to leave a little heartbreak on my desk: the glowettee hotline official website

[nerdanel01]

Agnes was excellent with a blade when it came to inflicting bodily harm, but soon learned she lacked all precision when it came to the delicate, surgical cuts made to aid in the removal and preservation of the vital organs; she did not excel in her studies of anatomy.  Singing was an essential and solemn part of the final, ritual washing the dead—but Agnes’ accent (distinctly un-Nevarran, but not really Orlesian either, an in-between chimaera) was one of the first things the other students had seized upon to tease her about, so she avoided those duties whenever she could. She did not make friends, but she did make a few enemies out of those who assumed the strange girl from the countryside would be an easy target for their humiliations. 

Perhaps those bullies felt they had been given tacit permission—as many of her instructors no longer bothered to disguise the fact that they had given up any hope of her making nay progress. The funerary preparations she was assigned for her after-hours work were now limited to tasks they knew she could complete, if not excel at—namely, anything that did not require anything more than the most basic necromantic aptitude. Most often, that meant helping catalogue the many bodies waiting for funerary preparations in the Necropolis morgue, and delivering them to the more skilled Watchers, who would prepare the bodies with greater expertise and care than Agnes’ instructors seemed to think she was capable of. (For her part, Agnes was inclined to believe they were right.)

But occasionally— rarely —the loved ones of the departed still commissioned death masks of the deceased. And these dead were always set upon Agnes’ marble table because, incredibly, (despite the fact that it was an art hundreds of years old that had largely fallen out of vogue; despite the fact that Agnes had never made a mold or a sculpture in her life before coming to the Grand Necropolis) she was rather good at it. She had a delicate hand for it; she would use her magic to massage the awful, stiff rigor out of the faces of the dead as she annointed them with oil, forcing a looseness into their facial muscles and a false elasticity into their skin, so that they took on a lively, peaceful expression. Then,  plaster was laid (with the utmost care, so as not to disturb the facial features) across the mouth; the ears; finally, the skull. Out of the spirit of curiosity and experimentation, Agnes had figured out a way of mixing the plaster so that it picked up the finest details—wrinkles, eyelashes, individual strands of hair on the head.

That is where Professor Volkarin found her—in one of the laboratories, off of the mortuary—still wearing the robes that marked her as an initiate, her heavy leather apron tied around her waist and neck, her heavy gloves stained white with drying plaster.

“Agnes!” he cried, with more delight than Agnes really thought was appropriate. “I thought I’d find you here.”

She could not understand the perpetual, unexpected warmth with which he greeted her. Hezenkoss had presented her to Commander Lowe for two words— for Volkarin— apparently he was the entire reason for her being here—and yet, in the year she’d spend in the Necropolis, she rarely saw him more than once a week, for tea. Those meetings were excruciating. He’d lean forward, near luminous with enthusiasm, asking her to recount what she’d learned the week before… and to her utter shame and embarrassment, Agnes often found herself tongue-tied. She was not sure she was learning anything, other than how to be continually frustrated and humiliated.

Once in awhile, however, the professor would ask her to accompany him on one of his excursions down into the Necropolis depths. Agnes could probably count on one hand the amount of times that had happened in the past year… but on those trips, in moments of madness, she sometimes thought that being uprooted from Perendale, that suffering through her remedial classes, that being forced to spend her days in the dark among the dead was a small price to pay, just to be in his company.

Madness.

Agnes stiffened a little as he entered the room, looking all too pleased to see her. “Professor Volkarin.” 

He cringed, before imploring her: “For what is at least the hundredth time, I must request that you call me, simpy, ‘Emmrich.’”

She did not like this—him, here, distracting her. If she timed the plaster cast wrong, it would be much harder to remove—it needed to be set enough to pick up the details on the face, but not so much that it risked pulling the fine hairs out of the face with it when she removed it. 

“You will have to ask at least a hundred more,” she retorted, inflexibly. More for an excuse to look away from his face than anything, she rubbed her hands together, watching as the dried plaster crumbled away from the leather in fine, ashwhite scales. When dared to glance at the professor again, she noticed, with an odd judder of her heart, that he was holding something behind his back, concealing it from her.

“What is that?” she asked, stricken, alarmed.

“Ah.” Professor Volkarin pulled his hand from behind his back to reveal the spray of lilac and moonblossoms, and—with a gesture that sent her heart into fitful palpitations of horror—presented them to her. “For you.”

Her gloved hands were still half-covered in plastic; she shouldn’t take them, even if she could will herself to move; she could barely force her chest to rise and fall, force her lungs to draw breath. 

“Why?” 

It sounded so rude that as soon as she said it, Agnes briefly wished to switch places with the plastered stiff on her table. 

If Professor Volkarin was offended, he didn’t show it; he accepted her blunder with his usual elegance and grace, and offered her only the hint of a smile instead, as though he were amused she had asked.

“It has been a year to the day since you joined the Mourn Watch as an initiate,” he explained. “I thought it an occasion worth celebrating.”

Agnes could not help but notice they were both flowers currently in bloom in the Memorial Gardens. She wondered briefly if he had picked them himself, then had to focus her attention primarily on fighting the heat the thought summoned to her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said, at last, somewhat stiffly. But the plaster was nearly set to perfection, and there wasn’t anywhere to set the flowers down in the tiny lab—she really had no idea what to do with them— “I’m sorry, would you mind holding them a little bit longer? I have to…”

And here she gestured (illustratively, if not articulately) at the corpse on the marble slab in front of her. 

“Not remotely,” Professor Volkarin said, with a charming smile. “Attend to your craft!”

And, holding the bouquet in his hand, he settled against the wall to watch.

Which was not the least bit distracting, feeling him looking at her and smiling and holding the stupid, lovely flowers that he very well might have picked himself while thinking about her. She wound her gloved fingers in the strong, woven thread poking out from the cast at the base of the corpse’s skull, and with a gentle, steady hand, began to pull it loose, sawing a fine, straight line through the cast until she reached the apex of the head.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Professor Volkarin drum his fingers on the stems of the bouquet in his grasp. “Separately… I came to ask you a favor.” 

Her fingers searched for the string at the left side of the corpse’s neck. “What do you need from me?” she asked, as her forefinger wound securely around the second string, and she began to pull.

“I’m travelling next week to the Circle at Perendale to give a lecture,” Volkarin said, all too brightly. “Given that is where you received your apprentice training, I thought you might like to come with me.”

“Oh.” Agnes felt her brows drawing together anxiously, tried to refocus her crestfallen look into one of concentration as the second string met the first and—delicately, carefully—she began to work the first third of the plaster mold off the dead man’s head.

It was clearly not the reaction the professor had hoped for. “I’m sorry…” he began, uncertainly. “I thought—I know that your home is quite near there, I thought you might enjoy the chance to visit. You needn’t feel obliged if the prospect makes you uncomfortable.”

In fact, Agnes could hardly think of anything that was less appealing. When Hezenkoss had taken her away from the Circle, she hadn’t been happy to be headed to Nevarra City… but nor had she really been upset to be leaving Perendale behind. She was ready to leave that place in her past.

“No, I…” Agnes began, hesitantly. She busied herself with the corpse in front of her, searching for the third and final string on the opposite side of the neck. It would be an exaggeration to say that she loathed the Necropolis more than she’d hated Perendale, but, well… at least Perendale had been outside. After a year languishing in the Necropolis dark, the idea of the roundtrip journey to Perendale—by boat and by carriage, somewhat at the mercy of the elements for both—where every day of the two-week trip she’d be able to stick her face to a window and look up at the sun…!

“I’ll go,” she said, commanding steadiness of her hand as she pulled the third string free with a taut little twang, and began to work the second part of the mold off the dead man’s head. She’d go—even if it meant two weeks spent in close quarters with Professor Volkarin, a thing she dreaded and craved in equal measure.

“Are you sure?” the professor asked her, to which Agnes responded with only a tight, curt little nod, using both of her hands and her most sensitive touch to pry the final, most integral piece of the cast—the face—off of the dead man’s head. At last it came free with a hideous little plap of suction being released, and Agnes turned the cast rightside-up, examining the quality.

Emmrich leaned forward, too, and sucked in a breath as he admired the level of detail she’d been able to capture. 

“Marvellous work, Agnes.”

He delivered the praise in such a pleased, sonorous rumble, deep in the back of his throat, that—after he had put the spray of flowers into her gloved hands, and excused himself from the room—Agnes had to stare at the wall in a blank, fugue state as she fought to recover from it. When she at last regained control of herself, the plaster cast had dried completely. 

---

excerpted from for love is strong as death, my emmrook longfic, 146k+ words and counting, rated e for eventual smut

[icewindandboringhorror]

(also feel free in the tags to clarify Why you made the choice you made!! :0c)

[teratomatica]

you always land on all fours