#scribbling down a draft as we speak

[vetteljuice]

just thought of a brocedes bridgerton au with lewis as anthony and nico as kate, which of course leaves the role of miss edwina sharma onto seb's hands because i like my angst like that and i'm sure lewis will appreciate his two german twinks by betraying the older one in an effort to give happiness by denying himself of true love even when it's staring at him right in the eye (he's too career driven to notice)

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

[itsastrobixch]

Astrology notes

- gemini / mercury / uranus / aqua change their identity a lot online. They place a lot of importance on their online identity and as they change so does their online personas.

- Mercury dominance if well placed Learnt to talk very early and saturn mercury aspects learnt to speak a bit late or may speak with a bit of hesitation.

- chiron in 1st have deep rooted identity issues and may also not be able to relax in photos and stuff. Some may even go to the extent of not wanting to take pictures at all.

- count yourself lucky if : air signs ask for your advice.. They don't ask option from everyone. Similarly if fire signs seek you out or show you their defeated side and depressed side. They Always want people to seem them as optimistic fiery and determined but like evryone they too go through down times but they tend to bounce back faster than others.

- Mercury saturn or Mercury rx may have great conversations with themselves in their heads but when it comes out it night miss the mark or.. Like not sound as good as it did in their brains.

- all mercury /gemini dominants open 3 to 5 tabs at the same time. And don't finish a single one completely. Change my mind.

- moon pluto tumultuous emotions. Whiplash. One extrene or the other. Mood changes just with a single event. The whole room can feel the shift as well. Moon and Pluto both give out unstable, watery and intense emotions. It can be difficult if negatively aspected. Even if positively aspected it can lead to the feeling overwhelming emotions.

- People with pluto in 1st, their emotions are hidden. No one knows how they feel. Mostly i see geminis get all the credit for their glib tongues. But have you ever seen a Pluto person toy with people when they know they truth ? They'll lie so effortlessly that even the people who know the truth will start to believe the lie is the truth. Their words and their facial expressions while lying is so controlled and natural it's scary.

- Asteroid Cerea shows is how we nurture. Aries ceres is the defender of the group and people who tend to protect people who are defenseless esp animals. Taurus is the comforter. And so on. But aspects and the house in which Ceres is in also plays a major role.

- Uranus / gemini in 3rd house have lots of ideas at the same time but many are unfocused and evrything is gone in a fleet. They may have a brilliant idea but Lose it in the next second. It'll be better if they scribble down their thoughts anywhere somewhere so they'll have a basic idea of what they thought.

- I fucking admire Aries women, esp as a Libra, like how tf..? i used to have a friend, she used to do some pretty controversial shit in high school but like never once let anything get iin her way and is now a part time business woman...like come on...how are you so headstrong ? And somehow things also tend to workout for them

- every mutable person has a box full of drafts all half done and of various types but all undone. Its a mess of ideas and posts half written and lost interest and motivation along the way...but I'll save it for another day when I will want to finish it up.

- If an air sign texts you daily, they like you. Especially instant replies . 🌝

- scorpio, and Venus Pluto aspects also tend to fall for someone who is out of their grasp. they like to torture themselves like that 😂 or they'll think that they don't deserve the person they're in love with. Its Always one or the other with them.

- venus neptune contacts produce the devoted worshipper type lovers. They will worship the ground their love walks on and will turn a blind eye to their faults. This is most definitely not a healthy patter of behaviour. Please don't indulge in this.

- mercury dominants can't fucking shut their brain off. they have a lot of nervous energy. And will Always be actively thinking about atleast two things at once.

- actually now that i think about it, my bffs in high are an Aries sun, me a sag rising and my frnd a leo sun. and i still wonder why the girls didn't like us 😂🌝 if fire signs get together whether they stir up drama or not, it'll either find them or people will hold them responsible for it even if they aren't.

- gemini and Mercury dominants can imitate very well especially the accents. Their adpative ability is out of charts and a bit creepy tbh. how they change acc to people, how they acclimatise to their surroundings ax cultures, they have this ability which allows to be another person if they like.

- mars - pluto negative aspects may have r*pe dreams often even if they haven't had any such encounters.

- pluto in 1st are ironically afraid of death and illness more so than the usual person.

- 11th house sign may show how we behave online.

-geminins have this weird ability to take and soak up information from all over the place and somehow put it together perfectly . they learn stuff from disorderly messes but they seem to understand it with clarity.

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

The Drafts

Summary: Spencer confronts Reader about a breakup text he found in her Notes app

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Angst, Comfort?

Content warnings: Manipulation, lying, yelling, anger, ambiguous ending

Word count: 1.5k

You check yourself out in the bathroom mirror. It’s date night, and it’s been long overdue since Spencer’s been called away to four states in the past two weeks. Despite the stress that already comes with that (and the current state of your relationship), the dress he got you makes up for it, and helps you think about how lucky you are in more ways than one. It fits you just right without trapping you in the fabric. Even the fluorescent lights in his bathroom can’t make you look bad. “Spencer!” You call out, zhuzhing your hair again before leaving. No response, but you flick the switch off before saying, “I’m ready whenever you are!”

Still nothing. Not surprising. It’s rare when Spencer isn’t lost in his own mind. You’ve learned not to ask every time this happens because it often leads to theoretical explanations that go over your head within seconds. On rare occasions, he’s discovered a plot hole in one of the older Dr. Who episodes (which also go over your head).

This is a different time though. Because when you turn the corner to the bedroom, Spencer isn't hunched over his desk or scribbling incoherence on his whiteboard (yes, he has a whiteboard in his bedroom and has refused to move it for reasons unexplained). Instead, he’s pacing the small area between the wall and the foot of his bed. He’s hunched over the phone. Your phone.

You try to bite back the instant frustration as his bare feet smack the floor. “Spencer,” you monitor your tone. “Are you ready?”

“You’re breaking up with me?” That is all he asks when he finally stops to look up at you. He’s not exactly emotional, but he’s definitely holding back.

Red hotly spreads across your cheeks. “What?”

He points and his eyebrows rise like he’s found evidence at a crime scene. “Flushed face.”

“Spencer, we’ve talked about —”

“Likely a sign of embarrassment from being exposed.” He turns the phone screen to face you; paragraphs of text and broken sentences from previous editing attempts. Arguably, not your finest work.

Your mouth is agape, and it is hard to fight the instinct to close it upon suspicion of further guilt. You bet he’ll assume surprise. “I thought we talked about you not looking through my phone.”

“Because you didn’t want me to see this?” He gestures back at it as if it’s not obvious. Sadness is already breaking some barriers, starting with his voice, but he’s trying to maintain a smug demeanor. Even in potential agony, Spencer can still get a high from being right.

You grunted. It was involuntary but honest. It came out of your throat like steam, as the anger in your core is already overflowing into the rest of your body. It bursts again when you snatch the phone out of his hands. He doesn’t flinch, damn him. You scroll up and down on the app incoherently, reminding yourself of the words he’s read and memorized. You think of how they’ll haunt you, how he’ll haunt you with them. “I can’t believe you went through my phone again.”

“I can’t believe you’re not even trying to fix this," he says. “I-I understand that things aren’t the most ideal right now, but we could’ve made time to talk about it.”

“What? Like not going through my phone? Look at how that worked out.”

“I know you’ve been acting differently. No kisses goodbye every day, spacing out at dinners with my coworkers, and a slew of other things.”

“Oh, are they written down on yours? I'd love to read them.”

Spencer shakes his head, letting his eidetic memory speak for itself there. “I’m a profiler, Y/N. And I can’t deny facts.”

The grunt before was delicate compared to the noise you make now. What the noise was is unknown, but terrifying. It wipes Spencer's smirk clean off. “Yes! You’re a profiler! I’m reminded of that every single goddamn day because every move I make near you is analyzed under a microscope!” You resist throwing your phone on the bed; partly out of fear of where it will bounce to, and partly Spencer snatching it up again. Instead, you tap the screen, exiting the Notes app and navigating to your texts. You press the latest contact, Garcia. Then you stay there, knowing Spencer will see the screen brightness show slightly on your face. “You didn’t read my texts, did you?”

Spencer doesn’t say anything. Your eyes dart towards him, and you can tell he wonders what cruel piece of evidence he missed.

“Yeah. Cause if you did, you would’ve known I was writing a breakup text for someone else. But you didn’t. So once again, you’ve snooped and gone out of your way to hurt your own feelings for no reason.”

The look on Spencer’s face. No matter how angry you get, how wrong he is, the sullen puppy dog look this man can pull off with his eyes alone is a weapon. It always makes him look pitiful.

And it makes lying to him even more painful.

“Spencer.” You say with a sigh.

“Who’s it for?”

You throw your head back. “Why is that your business?”

Spencer’s interrogation tactics often get in the way of the fact that he’s not facing a criminal, but his girlfriend. His girlfriend whose privacy he violated with no warrant presented to you. But when Spencer is on a case, he fails to differentiate between the two. You’ve practically heard him making mental notes when your behavior is even slightly off. Even when they have nothing to do with him. But he’s always quick to assume they are as he’s either leaving for work or being called away before discussions can occur. Spencer is a profiler, yes, but all profilers can let their emotions get the better of them.

You show Spencer your wrists. Gold bracelets clang together instead of silver cuffs. “What’s the goal here, Dr. Reid?”

He paces the floor again, briefly, before settling on the bed corner. He’s still looking at the floor, thinking, but you can tell his thought process has slowed down thanks to your (alleged) evidence. "Something must be wrong." He whispers. It’s pathetic. “You used to tell me everything.”

“And you used to not look through my things.” You’d hate to admit that you’re shaking too, but not from sadness. You stay standing, and put your phone on the dresser next to you. Face down. You cross your arms. “Things can change. Actions have consequences.”

He exhales briefly through his nose. He looks up, his eyes already shifting to a pinkish hue. “So it’s your turn to lecture me because —”

“Because my boyfriend is profiling off the clock again? Yes. Because he’s interrogating me and questioning my intentions when he’s supposed to be getting ready for date night? A date night he insisted upon because he’s been working overtime and profiling on a jet for the entire month? Yes.”

The anger. The intensity of it all pierced your blood long before. It coiled around your vocal cords while making your point. You had plenty more to say. A slideshow would’ve been worthy of listing Spencer’s actions over the last three months alone. Except the strain is hard, and clearing your throat doesn’t help. So you stand there, looking down at the miserable man you loved once. You pretend the silence is intentional, you let it speak for itself. 

And by some miracle (or perhaps the predicted luck of your dress), it worked. After wiping the budding tears from his eyes, Spencer studies you from curled hair to strappy heels. You know a stray movement will ignite a thousand rebuttals. You preferred dinner, so you maintain your statue-like stillness by raising only your eyebrows.

Spencer swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I should’ve…” He nods while clamping his lips closed. “Yeah, I should have talked to you first. I’m so sorry.”

You exhale. It could be the relief of moving again. Or the fact that you can’t help but comfort the sad man who is still technically your boyfriend. You take his hand and pull him off the bed and allow him to rest his head on your shoulder while holding your waist. His palms are flat on your back as his chest heaves and caves. Your arms are around his neck, and you comfort him with soft hushes. Meanwhile, adrenaline depletion is already beckoning your eyes to close. But you stare at the wall.

You’re so tired. You’ve been tired. Decaying is perhaps the best word for all of this. Nevertheless, you hold Spencer tightly to let him know you’re there. It's all the strength you have. The strength to end things though is of a different caliber than you thought you could fathom. You can collect enough to rip off the world's most difficult bandaid, eventually. But Spencer Reid with a theoretical broken heart is already painful enough to witness. He needs you right now. And right now, you'll be there for him.

Thank you to @imagining-in-the-margins and her discord for helping me with fleshing out this story 🩵

[fullofgutsndopamine]

everything you do (makes it easy to fall in love with you)

tw: cliches, over usage of pet names, insta-love, cursing

they/them for reader but one instance of “Misses” i couldn’t find a way around it

more here

the giggling should’ve given it away at first.

kids giggling and pulling at the each others sleeve is never a good sign, and even as a second year teacher-you know better.

a smile finds its way onto your face regardless, “what’s so funny?” you ask, “hm?”

half the class giggles into their hands, squirms in their seats and doesn’t answer until a student in the front spoke.

listen, you don’t have favorites-they’re all your kids. but if you had to choose, Rosie, the quiet kid that sits in front for all your lessons, speaks quietly and carefully, her glasses falling down her nose as she speaks-would be one of the first

“miss,” rosie giggles, “someone left a present for you.”

you act surprised.

Kids bringing small presents is nothing new; there's James, who brought you a bruised apple in the first month you started teaching. Annie, who comes in from recess with rocks shoved deep in her pockets for you; Sam who never comes inside when the bell rings without a weed in their pocket, a dandelion half squished for you-

when you make your way to your desk, make a show of opening the small shoebox turned Valentine's Day box you made in class, now with little cats on the sides, whiskers on the front; you're expecting half ripped pieces of lined paper in there, little mispelled love notes from your students-

making a show of opening it, you don't have to act surprised when you see it's absouletly filled to the brim with notes-and you were half right, written on ripped lined paper, scribbled between class periods, mispelled everything-

"Miss-"

one of the students calls you back to it as you take a handful out, a mess of: u lok nice 2day and i lik ur dres or i lov u

"Do you want us to tell you who they're from?"

They're giggling behind their hands, like it's an inside joke you somehow missed out on, didn't get the memo on

"Hm," The smirk plays on your face as you grab another one, "I haven't the faintest idea-"

"It was Mister Charlie!" Annie all but squeals, the class erupting into giggles

"Mr.Charlie," Your eyebrows form into one, "Like, the science teacher across the hall, Mr.Charlie? The one with the glasses?”

It's obvious from the notes that it isn't from him even if you've seen him in passing; walking to your classroom in the morning before the students are there, your hands full of bags for the classroom, him insisting on helping you only for you to race him to see who can get to their classrooms first-walking into his room when you know it's his planning period, his hair dishelved, glasses shoved ontop of his head as he's massaging the sides of his forehead only for you to ask, "Does this sound dumb?" when you're trying to draft an email

you know of Charlie

it's hard not to know about charlie. it's only your second year teaching, your first in this school district, and while everyone here is nice, he's the only one who's seemed to go out of his way to make sure you're comfortable. Dropping by on his lunch, his wrinkled paper bag in hand "I packed too much for lunch." only to pass you an orange, or an apple-when you get a note from one of his students and open it only for it to read: Sorry. They needed a second outside of the classroom. Please send something back for them. -C

"Yeah," They pull you back to present time, "He has a crush on you. He loves you."

they're giggling into their palms, oohing and awing as you do when you're young and love is something that makes their face bright red and squirm in their seats-

"Alright," You shake your head, shove the notes back in, hoping they don't see your face bright red, "We have to finish this lesson. C'mon, let's see where were we. Ah, yes. June, can you-"

You wait until it dies down, when you hope these notes are at least a semi forgotten thing, right before you're about to send them to recess, to send the note across the hall. You make sure to staple it down, don't trust the kids to not peak, and send it across the hall

Across the hall, Charlie is pacing.

"No because like," He shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair, "I can't tell them I like them-"

His best friend, the janitor, John, sits backwards in his chair, eating a banana.

He rolls his eyes as he peels the outside carefully, "Right, because that would be embarrassing-"

"No because exactly!" He shakes his head, slams his fist against his other hand, "I have to-"

A tiny knock on the door and charlie whips around.

All his students are gone, in art for the next 45 minutes-don't them to see him like this, stressed about a crush he'd rather die, thanks.

"Hey. Where-."

He immediately drops the rant, drops his voice as he kneels on the floor, very aware of how intimidating he could be to children, and how he towers over the students, tries to make himself smaller around them always

She drags her feet to Charlie, hands him the piece of red construction paper, stapled down, face bright red: "This is from misses, across the hall."

She speaks so quietly charlie has to strain to hear her, would have missed it if he didn't see your writing across the top of it.

His eyes go wide to John, "It's from them."

John cackles, "Is this a code red? Or-"

"Not now, John." charlie hisses, turns to the kid, "Thank you.”

And she nods once, drags her feet out the door and all but runs to the classroom.

"Open it, you idiot." John huffs, throws the banana peel into the wastebasket by the door, misses.

charlie turns it around in his hands, takes a deep breath, and opens it.

Across the hall, you worry you did the wrong thing.

It borders on flirting, the note you sent. Wrote it on a whim, can definitely see the words you scribbled out, wrote over, tried to make it so he doesn't see the first draft

Heard you have a crush on me you wrote, my kids filled my box with notes from "you". I would expect a science teacher to know how to spell 'hydrogen' when you're professing your love to me, but it's sweet, all the same. If you're kids say anything to you, just wanted to fill you in. Sorry, this is dumb.

You're contemplating faking your death, making a new identity, running away-investing in fake mustaches anything then to live in shame of flirting-with another teacher?! A science teacher of all things?! Please.

The note is shoved under your door, and you can hear footsteps all but run away and a door close in the time it takes you to get it.

It's your planning period now, and you turned the lights off and shut the door in hopes of some quiet to get rid of the pounding headache behind your eyes, your glasses shoved over your face

You get it slowly, carefully, walk to the door where there's a thick piece of computer paper, also stapled close, halfway across the room from being shoved with such passion under the door-

your name is scribbled in front, loopy and carefully and you open the note slowly, expecting a restraining order

sunshine,

can't believe my cover was blown away by students, of all things. I heard them whispering in my classroom about this, but didn't think they'd be brave enough to do anything about it.

I'm sorry about my kids. I think when adults look at each other, kids think they're in love. I hope they didn't bother you too much.

-charlie in 303 (The science teacher)

P.S. You look pretty today

Your fingers run over the note, the place where he obviously pressed down too hard with his pencil and left marks in the note, the scratching out he did. The way he added his classroom in, as if you weren't sure who he was, as if he isn't the only one who's showed you kindness, who stayed with you when you locked yourself out of your classroom your second day until John came to unlock the door. Or the snacks he brought you, the cupcake he had a student bring you when he was celebrating his birthday-the kind little gestures he did in the few months you'd known him

You sit on the note for the day.

Not on purpose; your class came back and there was a small fight amongst students, homework to do-the note felt heavy in your pocket, forgotten until you got home and undressed for the day.

"No but like," charlie sighs to John the next day, early before school is suppose to start. John is leaning back in his seat, eating a granola bar and missing his mouth, most of it ending up on the floor, "Valentine's day is in two days and all I did was send a note all but professing my love to another teacher."

"I know," John snorts, "How embarrassing. That has to be like, an HR red flag, right?"

"Not helping, John." charlie groans as he slams his head against his desk. "Maybe this is a sign I should quit. Move across the sea, make a new identity-"

"On a teachers budget?" John snorts, "charlie be serious, you can't even afford to look at those ticket prices-"

"Not helping, you-"

"Besides," John rolls his eyes, throws the wrapper in the trash, "It's just a crush, charlie. Jesus Christ, you act like you've never had one before. They aren't going to write you up for thinking the teacher across the room from you is hot."

charlie groans, digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars.

"And besides," John adds, "It's cute. I haven't seen you this excited since college. The flowers are cute, I promise."

charlie doesn't answer, picks up the mini water bottle he ripped the label off of it and picked some of the wild flowers that grow on his walk into school. He can't afford the grocery store bouquets, not on his teaching budget.

"Come on," John groans as he stands, jingles the keys in his hands, "I'll unlock their door before they come. They'll be here in ten minutes."

charlie sighs but obeys, bites back comments on how he worries this is weird, replaces it with: "it's weird you know their schedule."

John huffs, digs into his pocket as he makes a show of using the wrong keys so charlie groans, cranes his neck to check the hallway for any signs of you-

Finally, three wrong keys later, John pushes the door open and gently shoves charlie in, and he stumbles inside, places the water bottle on your desk, and digs around in his pocket for the note he wrote last night when he couldn't sleep, and shoves it deep into your valentines mailbox before he can regret it-and all but runs out.

Your turning the construction paper make-shift valentine you made over in your hand, contemplating what to say, when to confess this crush officially, when your eyes hit the small water bottle again.

the note never said it's from him, but it's all but implied, the same flowers you see in the schoolyard day in and day out, and you drag the small bottle to you, shove your nose deep into the small bouqet.

Your eye catches the note in the box. You almost missed it, halfway through the day already, when you can see the very tip of it, and you carefully have to dig it out, carefully unwrinkled it and put it on your lap

one day left.

according to my kids, we're married. sorry you have to find out this way that you're taken. sorry the last name is kind of shit.

Have a good day, darling. Keep the tiny humans alive until 3:05.

-C (303, Science teacher)

PS You look beautiful today

A smile creeps onto your face, and a plan forms in your head.

Being friends with the janitor comes with many perks. You didn't originally become friends just for those perks, believe you should treat everyone kindly, but when charlie is in one of his kid's specials (It's Thursday, so you know it's music class and you also know, from walking past the room, that charlie takes the class very seriously, and likes to join in when he can) and you're able to find John, hiding in his room (More of a make shift closet) and ask him to unlock charlie’s door.

"I worry this goes against a school rule," You whisper, bouncing on your heels, "Like, an unspoken rule."

John smells heavy of nicotine and grease (somehow) but he's humming as he unlocks the door, "Nah," He shakes his head, "Just mention me in y'all's speech when y'all are married. Or, name a kid after me."

You gasp, gently hit his arm, "John we are not getting married. Or having kids. I don't even know him. We're just two co-workers who are being nice."

John physically bites his tongue to hold back any comments on first love, or how many text charlie’s sent about you instead nods: "Mhm." as the door opens.

The room is darker without charlie. You know in your head it's due to the lights being out, and not actually because of his lack of presence, but he definitely brings something to the stone walls that's missing without him.

"Quick, quick quick," John teases as he leans against the doorframe, jingles his keys, that smirk on his face he always seems to wear, "Let's go."

You squeal, all but run to his desk, the small bouquet of construction paper flowers on green pipe cleaners you folded on lunch in a small paper milk carton, a piece of paper under it: One more day to go. Sorry these aren't real. From your wife

And you all but run out as John laughs at you.

Valentine's Day comes, and it feels like it's hangng over your shoulders, some big d-day you've been dreading and waiting for.

charlie is too chicken shit to ask you out to your face. He knows this, hell-you probably know that too, but he still comes in, a small cup he usually reserves for his kid's birthdays, plastic with your name down the side, filled with your favorite candy (gotten the answer from grilling your kids at lunch and lowkey bribing them) a note taped to the outside in a bright pink envelope he folded up.

He makes his way to your room, sets it in the middle, hesitates, contemplates if he should, and leaves before he can second guess it.

You're happy you saw the cup before your students, or you would've never heard the end of it.

Your hands all but shake as you take the paper out, his handwriting slanted and scribbled like he wrote it in a hurry:

It's so fucked that I couldn't say this straight to your face.

Will you go out with me? Tonight, 8pm. Tammy's Diner in town.

Let me know.

-c

The absence of his room number, his title, makes you smile, blushing as you re-read the note, him finally asking you out. You contemplated asking him out since you started here, debating with it every ride home in complete silence, beating yourself up for not doing it.

You open your desk up, grab a piece of paper, and get to work.

charlie is googling teaching jobs in the city when one of your students walks in, wide eyed, a note in their small hands. He all but runs to them, gives them a hand full of candy as they leave happily, and he takes a deep breathe, opens the note

Can't wait

I've been waiting for you to ask me out.

Our class party is at noon. Bring your class and we can have a little combined party, it'll be fun.

Wear your green tie, it's my favorite.

-Your excited wife

"And that class, is when you carry the one. Now-"

The yell rips through the air, all but quiet, and the class whips around, wide eyed, wondering what the yelling is about, the loud Woo that rips through the air.

A smile forms on the edge of your lips, "C'mon guys, we're almost done. When this is over, we have a party with Mr.Charlie’s class. C'mon. Now, if the one is carried-"

[ghoulangerlee]

this has been in my drafts for a while tbh, I thought of it one day, scribbled the idea out and then never committed to it.

So, I challenged myself to write this out in the 30 mins I have before bedtime (I seem to have went over by a few oops)

Copiaether cockwarming ahead <3, a bit contemplative, soft and full of love. The book Aether's reading is House on The Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune :) hope you guys enjoy!

-

Time around him goes syrupy and sweet, slow like molasses the longer he kneels there, mouth stretched around where Aether’s somewhere between hard and soft.

He'd been told before, however long that was, to kneel and be good, open his mouth and let the thick head of Aether’s cock rest against his tongue.

No sucking, just resting, keeping him warm and wet while Aether reads—and he is reading, from a novel that Aether had been picking his way through.

The words don’t mean much to Copia, not like this, not when he’s surrounded by the scent of Aether where it’s the thickest—kneeling here between his spread legs, mouth full, content—

Oh. He shifts, there’s a sharp pain in his knees despite the soft pillow he’s resting on, he shifts again, makes a sort of garbled, grumbling sound in his throat, vibrates down his chest as he opens his eyes, disgruntled at the way his body had so easily pulled him from that floaty place of contentment.

He taps, once and then twice more against Aether’s bare calf, gaze trained upwards as Aether stops reading and lowers the book, cataloguing his expression despite everything.

“Do you need something, darling?” Aether asks, pitching his voice low, just as he had been reading, placing the book face down over the arm that he's closest to.

Copia doesn’t speak, doesn’t pull away until Aether’s hands gently guide him up and away, his mouth open still as he mourns the loss of the fullness, but Aether shushes him, rubs a thumb over his lower lip where its shiny and slick with spit, “Use your words,” he chides gently, stern in a way that makes Copia want to obey.

“My knees,” he finally says, hating the way his voice goes wobbly, something about being here for Aether, kneeling at his feet while Aether practically ignores him makes him feel in ways he didn’t think was possible. “Can we change positions?”

Aether smiles, spreads his legs wider and leans down to kiss at Copia’s slack lips, warm and encouraging, “Come up here on the couch, darling.”

It takes him a few minutes to comply, his knees twinging painfully as he stands, but Aether’s hands are cool as they slip under his T-shirt, gently funneling magic into him, letting it wash over his stiff joints to soothe as he guides him up onto the couch.

Copia sighs as he stretches out, lies on his belly so he can nuzzle his way back into Aether’s lap, making a contemplative noise—Aether’s thickened up a bit in the meantime, and he peers up at him, blinking slowly, “Can I—?”

Aether cards his fingers through Copia’s hair, gentle and light, “Is that what you want?” he asks softly, thumb brushing over the graying hair at his temples, “We can shift to something else. Take this to the bed…” he trails off, glances over at the bedroom door, opened to reveal the rumpled sheets of Aether’s bed.

“No,” Copia says, the word catching in his throat as he shifts on the couch more, it’s located in the perfect spot, a grand window overlooking the forest at the back of the church, the sunlight coming through the crack between the curtains bathing the couch and the two of them in warm light.

“I want to stay,” Copia continues, “Right here. For a bit longer. Finish your chapter,” he glances and the book on the arm of the couch, the colorful cover bringing a sense of calm over him, “Maybe two more chapters. And then...” he trails off, uncertain.

So unlike the persona he puts on when on stage, Papa Emeritus the Fourth, so larger than life, yet here he is, feeling as if he’s suggested something terrible for the two of them, even when—

“Two more chapters, huh?” Aether asks, cutting his thoughts off, “I think I can do that. I am enjoying the book,” he admits, “And the company.”

Copia hides his face against Aether’s bare thigh, the dusting of hair there tickling against his skin, he’s flushed, embarrassed, knowing how fast he's slipping if a sly comment and a wink causes him to act like this.

“Can I—?” Copia manages, muffled against Aether’s thigh for a moment, before he lifts his head, peers up at him with half lidded eyes, “I want to keep you warm again, my ghoul, while you’re reading.”

Aether’s hand slips down from his hair, thumb brushing over his cheek, then to his bottom lip, guiding his mouth open, “Mm, I think you’ve earned it,” he says sweetly, “Do you remember my rules?”

Copia nods, trying not to look too eager at the idea of getting his mouth back on Aether, “No sucking, no licking, I’m just keeping you warm.”

“Good boy,” Aether says warmly, leaning down to press a kiss to Copia’s forehead, nuzzling at his hairline for a moment, “Two more chapters and then we’ll move to the bedroom,” he murmurs.

A noise, something excited, slips from Copia’s mouth as he lets Aether guide him back to where his cock has chubbed up, thick and resting there between his legs, fitting his mouth over the girth of it feels like home.

Or maybe it’s just being with Aether that feels like home, and Copia settles into it, rests one arm over Aether’s thighs while the other one curls under his chest, comfortable and warm now that he’s not kneeling on the floor.

Aether pets through his hair a few times, murmuring a soft Good boy before he’s picking up his book again, sinking back against the couch as he starts reading aloud from it again.

The whole time, Copia drifts—warm and comfortable as time goes syrupy thick again, his eyes fluttering closed as he feels his entire body relax once more. His mouth stretched around Aether—chubby and thick in his mouth, making his jaw ache just a little with it, while Aether reads above him, voice warm and low, welcoming.

“A home isn’t always the house we live in. It’s also the people we choose to surround ourselves with."

[cupidsworstcrime]

House x Veteran Fellow nonsense

My brain is tiny, and I've had this sitting in my drafts forever. I might add to it if there's demand, but I don't know lol!

summary/blurb: A new fellow gets hired, shit SWIFTLY hits the fan.

note: its dual POV cause I love house. Word count: 4759

~~~~

Liliya

Being a marine is usually just something that happens when you have a military family. Both parents, grandfathers, great grandfathers, all military. It’s just something that you grew up comfortable with, you expect it, you don’t have any other life plans because you were born to serve. But now I was here. Freshly discharged yet still needed to serve. Be of use.

Med school was a bitch, honestly, but I needed to help people. Needed to be ordered around. Hospitals are like the military, no? Just less guns. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Meeting with Lisa Cuddy, a dangerously beautiful woman, to see if I was fit to work here. I was standing in her office, hadn’t sat yet, hadn’t been permitted to. Maybe I shouldn’t be putting my weird militant expectations on her, but she was in charge of this hospital, so by proxy in charge of me.  

“You can sit, it’s just an interview.” Her voice was soft, almost motherly. Did she think I was nervous? I mean, I was, but did I look nervous? She was in a white coat, lovely black dress, and heels. Way better looking than I, that’s for sure. I was in cargo pants, a tucked in white shirt, and some boots. I looked stereotypically military, but this was my whole wardrobe. I didn’t have beautiful dresses and heels. Not that I didn’t want to, just haven’t had the time.

I sat in the seat in front of her desk, “Thank you again, ma’am. I really appreciate that you found the time to interview me.” My hands folded politely in my lap. She flipped through my file, leaving us in silence for a minute or two. 

I hated silence, but luckily, she spoke up soon, “And… Your pain management… What are you doing for that?” Ah, the reason I was discharged in the first place. As if on cue, the pain in my ankle started. The left one, the one I didn’t have anymore. 

Pain management? Was she accusing me of being an addict? “Grit and bear it.” I answered honestly. I didn’t want to be doped up all the time, took Tylenol as needed, physical therapy, the works. “Is being… Is it an issue?” My amputation was something that made me leave the marines, I hoped it didn’t affect me now. On bad days, I had a mild limp, on horrible days I needed a wheelchair. The worst of it was the chaffing, the cloth sock of the prosthetic rubbing harshly against my …. Well nub, for lack of a better term. I could still be a doctor. I can still serve a purpose.

She smiled, so I smiled, “Look, I would love to hire you.” Oh… I see… “But the doctor you’ll work under… he likes to perform his own interviews.” She reached across her desk, her hand in front of me as if to comfort me. “I think you are a shoe in, I do. Dr. House is kind of an ass, but he’s the best damn doctor we have. Don’t let him push you around.” She withdrew her hand and scribbled something onto a post-it note. 

I stayed obediently silent, waiting for her to speak again. I never liked speaking without permission, I hated it more than I hated the silence. I looked down at the hands still neatly folded in my lap. I was so focused on my hands, on staying quiet, that I didn’t even hear her speaking until the post-it note was being handed to me. 

“This is his office, I let him know you’re on the way.” I looked up at her, then down at the sticky note, taking it.

“Thank you, ma’am.” I said as softly as I could, standing up and offering my hand to shake. She didn’t take my hand, so I let it awkwardly fall back to my side. “Thank you again, really, I mean it. This is a great opportunity.” As I saw myself out, she had this look of almost pity. It didn’t feel like the usual pity of my past, more like a pity for whatever was about to happen in this next interview.

“Oh and, Liliya?” I turned to face her, “Don’t act so… quiet with him.” She suggested, she knew him best, had to be good advice. 

I nodded, “Yes ma’am.” I said, then walked out, gently closing the door behind me. Don’t be so quiet. Talk to him. I mean, working in Diagnostic Medicine meant talking, I knew that, but speaking felt wrong. 

As I walked to this office, I had this sense of impending doom. Was I going into the right field? Was this for me? Born and raised to serve, never stopped for a moment to think that maybe I was in over my head. I was third in my class, I knew I was smart enough for it, but fuck was I even prepared. I felt out of place walking amongst doctors. Maybe I would get lucky, and Dr. House would turn me away. Wait. I don’t want that. Right? I want this job?

I thought I wanted it. I mean, I just was on this weird thought train about needing to serve. Needing to be of use. But as I walked the halls of the hospital, I felt nauseous. Like really nauseous. God, I want to turn around and go home, nauseous. Where even was home anymore? Jersey? Texas? Kansas? Any marine base?

Through the glass wall, I could see three people sitting at a table watching an older man write on a white board. I knocked on the door as I poked my head in. “Dr. House?” I said softly, everyone turning to me. I felt a light blush creep up my neck and the tips of my ears burned, gently letting the door close behind me. “Dr. Cuddy sent me down here for an interview.” 

My hands were held behind my back, at half attention. I looked at the older man, he had to be House, I doubted he would be a fellow. His eyes were so blue. Like painfully so. My eyes fell to his cane, I tried not to stare, I really did. I’m not gonna be weird, act like I had a weird cripple kinship with the man. But as I shifted my weight to my good leg, I felt relieved. Surely this meant my disability wouldn’t get me turned away. 

“Ah yes,” The older man spoke as he hobbled over to his desk where a stack of files sat, “Military brat, right?”

I shifted my weight again with a wince, “Yes sir.” I didn’t think I was a brat, but I wasn’t going to argue with the ‘best damn doctor in this hospital’.

He opened a file, didn’t look up at me, “Sir. I like that.” He pointed at the three people, two men and one woman, at the table, “Take notes.” I chewed the inside of my cheeks nervously. Why wasn’t he asking me questions? Why did these interviews not feel like interviews? Was this just the most unprofessional hospital? His eyes shifted from the files and seemed to focus on my legs. Oh, he’s at that part of the file then. 

He scoffed, “Wow, does Cuddy think I’ll just hire the first cripple to walk through that door?” His eyes lifted to mine. I figured the question was rhetorical, so I stayed silent, staring back at him. “Speak!” I almost flinched. Right, Dr. Cuddy told me not to be quiet with him. 

I took a breath, trying to stand a little taller, “Sir, I really don’t see why that would matter?” I shifted my weight to my good leg once again. “I promise, it doesn’t hinder me in any way.” That was a blatant lie. 

He rolled his eyes, “That is a blatant lie, I would know. And I still have my leg.” He looked back at the file and sighed, “What does your pain management look like? Any drugs?” 

I cleared my throat, crossing my arms under my chest, “I just take Tylenol if I really need it, otherwise, I just grit and bear it.” I repeated, it seemed to be my mantra. Something flashed in his eyes, almost looked like jealousy. Why was this question so important to them?

“No Vicodin? Ketamine?” I shook my head, and he nodded, “Alright, then I have a question.” He looked at me expectantly, I just looked back, “Oh my god, speak girl! What’s that? Timmy’s stuck in a well?” He said with a glare. Someone at the table snorted, and that burn at my ears returned.

I hated my quiet little habit. “Sorry sir, what’s your question?” He closed my file and walked back to the white board. It read: 

‘Hemolytic Anemia, Clotted Retina, Failing Liver’

“Diagnose it.” He said, gesturing to the board. Hep E was a possibility, lupus as well. 

I walked closer to the table, looking over a blond man’s shoulders. I reached over him, my chest against his back, gently dragging my ringer over the file he held. “He’s 16?”

The blond cleared his throat, “Uh, yeah.” “Been out of the country?” I took the file and leaned back against the table next to him. He nodded and I hummed, “Hep E?” 

House laughed and snatched the file from my hands. “Chase and Brat, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” Okay, well that was childish. “It’s not Hep E.” 

“One, stop calling me that please,” He smirked, “And two, what about lupus?”

***

It was not Lupus. I barely even remember what happened. Something to do with termites, a cat autopsy, and House got punched by a father. Very eventful first week. I had someone's vomit on my shirt, my pants had a small tear from an accident with a shovel, I smelt rank, and hadn't left the hospital all week. Felt like home. I got some body spray from Chase and practically bathed in it. I sat alone in the office as I filled out paperwork. I hated the quiet. Hated it. You’d think after years and years and years of constant noise, I’d revel in the silence, but it just made me anxious. Yet, I’m not much of a talker. Is that ironic?

I had music softly playing from my phone, humming along. “Why are you still here, Lassie?” Fucking Lassie, he’s been calling me that all fucking week. 

I gestured at the table, covered in books and papers, “Paperwork,” I wasn’t trying to sound annoyed on purpose, guess it just happened when you don’t sleep. 

“It can wait till tomorrow.” I didn’t bother looking up at him, just kept scribbling away silently. A pair of scrubs was thrown onto the table. “At least go shower,” He said gruffly, “Paperwork will still be here when you get back Lassie, promise.” 

I sighed and reached for the body spray again, “can’t shower here.” I tapped my leg. “Takes so long to take it on and off, I’ll just get this done and go home.” I sprayed the body spray on me and set it down. I looked up at House, under his eyes were red and he was sweating a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. Withdraws, a lot.

I must have made a face because he rolled his eyes, “Pharmacy hadn’t had my pain meds,” I made a soft ‘ah’ sound, and went back to paperwork. “How do you not just… Drown yourself in Vicodin?”  I shrugged, staying silent. I think he liked my quietness more than Cuddy expected. More than he expected. He doesn’t seem like one to have these conversations. Related to his pain meds? “So, you just live like that?” I nodded. “Must be nice,” he said, finally opening the pill bottle in his hand and taking two. I think the silence was a good place for him to just bounce words off, knowing I wouldn't judge him out loud.

“I don’t know if having my purpose in life ripped away along with my leg, can really be called nice, sir.” I didn’t mean to spit it the way I did, but he didn’t seem insulted. 

He smiled a bit. “Angry about it?”

“Immensely.” I said honestly. It was never in my plans to lose my leg 2 years into my military career, and then pull myself through school. “If you’re not angry, you’re not human.” I scribbled my last little notes and closed the file. I stood, “Night, House.” 

“Night, James.” He scowled, “That felt weird.” I shrugged, I was just happy he was calling me by my name, last name or otherwise, over Lassie.

“Can just call me Liliya if calling me a man’s name bothers you that badly.” I tried to compromise. He called a few others by their last names; I understood why maybe he didn’t feel comfortable with mine. My C.O.s didn’t like it either. 

He scoffed, “It’s not that it's a man’s name. I’m not a sexist.” I gave him a look and he raised his hands defensively, “It’s just a friend’s name.” He took another Vicodin and I had to hold back my frown. “You sure we can’t just stick to Lassie and Brat?” I shrugged, going silent once again. 

“Wanna get a drink?” I was surprised by my own question. 

He smirked, “Man, I’m gonna have to stop hiring female fellows if they keep falling for me.” I rolled my eyes and shifted my weight, crossing my arms. 

“I meant as coworkers,” I took a breath, “Look, we had a shitty week, you more than any of us, yeah?” He nodded. “Let's go out tomorrow night. You can always just not come; I don’t mind drinking alone.” And I left. Surprisingly an amputee was faster than a man with an infarction. 

The next night, I may have gotten a little dressed up. Only a little. Used my day off to go dress shopping, picking out a lot of nice clothes for myself. Including a slightly sparkly black dress that went to my mid thigh, three different pairs of black heels, and a handful of makeup and hair products. 

So, I was sitting in a bar, prosthetic crossed over my leg, nursing a rum and coke. I didn’t actually expect him to show up. I heard the annoying beep of my on-call pager and groaned, ‘9-1-1’. “Shit,” I whispered and rushed out. I rang up House, and it went straight to voicemail. “Hey sir, got the page, on my way, but, uh,” I ducked into my car, “I had a little to drink and I don’t have time to change,” I started my car, “Be there in like 15, don’t kill anyone.” And I hung up.

As my heels clicked about as quick as they could across the floor. I tried to ignore the insecurity I had for my prosthetic that my niece stuck hello kitty band aids over to ‘make me feel better’. I pushed House’s office door open, “Sorry I’m late sir.”

“Chase,” House spoke, facing the white board, “Tell Brat what happens when you are late.”

Chase turned to me, and his eyes widened, “Well shit, Liliya…” I tried not to blush as his eyes trailed me. Foreman cleared his throat and Chase seemed to zone back in. “Just… Damn if you’re gonna be late, make sure you’re dress like that I mean fuck-”

“Chase!” Cameron chastised in tandem with Foreman, causing House to finally turn around.

His blue eyes looked me up and down and he smiled. He knew I dressed like this basically for him. “Lassie, why are you dressed like a hooker?” Oh, you cunt. 

My hands folded behind my back, “I was meeting someone for drinks, sir.” Why was I standing at attention? Felt like it. 

“Kinky.” He said, leaning against his cane, “Hot date?” I rolled my eyes, he was doing this deliberately now, the fucker. 

“Date? Probably not.” I walked further into the office, reading the white board, “Hot? I don't know sir, he’s probably older than my father.” I didn’t know if I found House attractive. Maybe? But I wasn’t about to feed his ego like that. He probably wasn’t older than my father, but the way he looked when I said that made me feel vindicated. He rolled his eyes, focusing on the board again. Did me not finding him hot… bother him?

Chase laughed, “You like older guys?” I looked back at him and shrugged. I stayed silent as I took my seat, having talked enough. He nudged my bare shoulder, I just smiled and listened to House as he ranted about the case. I felt kind of loopy. Drunk almost. That didn’t make sense, I had one drink, and I didn’t even finish it.

I must have zoned out because soon someone was snapping in my face, “Earth to Lassie,” the voice was gravelly and yet smooth. I hummed softly and looked up at House with a smile. The lights in the room were off but it was still light outside, “How much did you drink waiting for me to show up?” I figured no one else was in the room, no way he’d be so open if the other fellows were here. I silently held up a finger. “One what? One tequila shot? Jager bomb?” He mumbled, sitting down, lowering to my level.

“Rum and coke.” I said with a soft laugh. I stared into his gorgeous blue eyes, and I leaned in slightly, “you’re pretty.” God, he was pretty, wasn’t he? Those sweet baby blues, stubble I wanted to drag my lips against. Woah there, Liliya, calm the fuck down, holy shit. What's wrong with me? This doesn’t feel right. Something feels wrong.

He smiled and turned away from me, “Yeah right. You’re wasted.” I leaned against his shoulder and hummed softly. 

I had an ache where my left calf would be, “‘m leg hurts…” I whined softly. God, it hurt so bad. Like it was being stabbed repeatedly. I whimpered a little, rubbing my face against his shoulder.

“The left?” He asked, knowing the answer but I nodded anyway. His hand went to my thigh, gently tugging down the sock that helped hold the prosthetic to me.

I giggled through the pain, “Buy me dinner first.” He smiled; it seemed half genuine. 

I heard him start to talk but I was overwhelmed with nausea. “Oh fuck…” I leaned forward, vomiting. At first, I thought it was the alcohol, but then my eyes focused and I saw the crimson puddle below me.

“Oh shit…” I looked up at House, he almost looked scared. He started yelling but I couldn’t quite hear him. My head hurt so fucking bad, my leg was killing me. And there it was, that sense of impending doom. That's definitely a symptom of something. 

“House…” I groaned, feeling arms wrap around me, several arms. “I feel… Fuck, I’m dying…” 

“You’re not dying, Lili.” Chase muttered above me, flashing a light in my face.

I shook my head, closing my eyes tight, “Feel like it,” I frantically tugged at the cleavage of my dress, it felt suffocating. I had this same feeling when I lost my leg. “Don’t… Fuck… Chase…” I Pulled him down by his collar, “If you break into my house, I will castrate you.”

HOUSE

I was holding a leg. Not a real leg. A stupid, metal, steampunk leg covered in ridiculous cartoon band aids. It feels like I am losing his mind, more so than usual. Feeling slightly out of character. And frankly, half pissed. Why the fuck was one of my best doctors currently vomiting up blood and thinking she was dying? Could I even call her one of my best? She’s worked with me for exactly 9 days. Plus she was a marine, Mr. House was a fucking marine. It was infuriating, the way she acted. As if she was bred and raised to be bossed around. Okay, that part I didn’t mind all too much. Sometimes.

I could ignore the blood on the floor, the blood on my shoes, my cane, the hem of my pant legs. What I couldn’t ignore was the makeup smudged on the shoulder of my blazer. She fucking nuzzled me as pain relief. Like a fucking rabbit. An annoying, beautiful fucking rabbit. Obedient fucking rabbit. Wow, Wilson was right, I am an actual predator. This girl was in her 20’s, she’s fucking sick, I’m her boss, and all I can think of is how gorgeous she was in that dress. How attractive it was that she didn’t leave the hospital all week till she was 100% sure that kid would be okay.

I’ve done worse things morally, hell my interns break into a new place everyday. I have Cameron on a weird leash that keeps her by my side with romanic hope, Chase sees me as some fucked up father figure, Foreman is Foreman. But wanting to fuck my employee, an employee half my age, against my desk was forbidden in my fucked up little brain. Great, now I had a headache. 

I threw Liliya’s prosthetic onto the table, it clanked against the glass. I took the little orange bottle out of my pocket and took 2 pills. Dry, the only right way to take the pills that were probably ruining my life, but I liked being in denial. 

I wiped the whiteboard clean, completely dumping the last case. We had a new focus. ‘Hematemesis, sense of dread, amputee(?)’ I wrote out on the board. Foreman was the first to walk back into the room. I leaned against my cane. “Diagnose her.” We hadn’t even run any tests on her. It could have been really simple, but something told me it was more. She seemed like trouble.

Chase and Cameron followed into the room like little ducks. “Uh, I don’t think the amputation has anything to do with her condition.” Chase spoke up. 

I rolled my eyes, “Oh I’m sorry, I seemed to have forgotten to consult what you think.” I glared at the blond rich bitch, “What makes you say they aren’t related?” 

“Well for starters,” I was beginning to hate his accent. “She lost it in the military, mid-service. I doubt shrapnel from 5 years ago really led to  her throwing up blood this morning.” Doubt.

“Was the surgery performed out of the country?” I asked the man who seemed to know all about sour sweet doctor. Am I being possessive? Fuck thats weird isn’t it? I hobbled to the file, still thrown lazily onto my desk. I read through as quick as I could

James , Liliya

Age: 27

Sex: F

Boring, boring, boring, bingo.

Left leg amputation, 6/11/20XX, Tripler Army Medical Center, Honolulu HI

Wow, my birthday and a base my dad used to be stationed at. Awesome, I hate marines. 

“House, it’s been 5 years, plus the tests aren’t even back yet.” Cameron said softly, “She probably could have just had too much to drink.” Okay, well that pissed me off more.

“Yes, Moron, cause I too, get shit faced off one ‘coke and rum’ waiting for my date to show up, just to come into work and throw up blood on my boss’ boots.” I fucking hate this hospital. I took another vicodin. 

Foreman shrugged a bit, “Maybe she’s just a really big lightweight, I mean, she dozed off in the middle of diagnosing the other guy.” I needed a new team. I didn’t actually, I don’t know why they were pissing me off. Is it because I secretly wanted something to be wrong with her? Wanted her to have something terminal and fucked up? Die in 3 days, so I’m willing to fuck my pervy boss, terminal? I’ll ask Wilson later. 

***

“Is it really that bad?” 

“Yes!!” Wilson said ludicrously, “Wanting to… God, House, she’s a kid.” I scrunched up my nose.

“Don’t say it like that, she’s an adult.” She was, a fucking gorgeous one at that, “Have you seen her ass, Wilson? It’s fucking perfect.” I wish I had a chance to see under her dress, I should have gone drinking with her. Damn it. But then would she have vomited blood on me mid-sex? That would be hard to explain. Would we have even had sex? Fuck, we definitely do in my dreams.

Wilson buried his face in his hands, “You do remember this girl is in the ICU, don’t you?” He’s right. I’m being a freak, more than usual. There was something actually wrong with me if I was ever even humouring the thoughts. The fantasies. I’m her boss. And now her doctor. This was fucked on levels I didn’t even think I would have cared about. She was a sweet girl, she didn’t deserve to be trapped in a perverts mind like this. …Well she was already running around in there like a hyperactive rabbit, might as well let her stay up there. God, she was a sexy rabbit. 

Greg, Liliya is sick, stop thinking, you fucking predator. I hated fighting with myself. 

I felt so out of character. Why did this small, stupid woman make me feel like a character in a shitty erotica that all the Christian moms tried to get banned from the public library? Some freak ass’ self-indulgent fantasy. 

I sat in Liliya’s hospital room, sitting in the chair in the corner of the room. I spun my cane in my hands, irritated. Irritated that I was the only one that thought there was something wrong with her, the only one concerned that she had to be intubated, that she aspirated on her own bloody vomit twice in the past three days.  Irritated that my mind was blank, unwilling to risk her health for our guesses, doing treatments that could kill her if we were wrong. 

I didn’t want to hurt her in any way, it's agonizing. I wish I didn’t care that I could separate her from the diagnoses I had to get, but I couldn’t. Every time I looked at that fucking whiteboard, I felt nauseous.

25 years old. Texas native. Born and raised in the South, her military records are pristine. Two years into active service, she was caught in an explosion, resulting in the loss of her left leg below the knee. Multiple surgeries followed, all performed by military surgeons in various tropical field hospitals. 

I tossed the file back onto my desk and turned to face the team. "Field hospitals aren’t exactly known for their pristine conditions. Could be an infection that lay dormant."

Cameron frowned. "But wouldn't an infection have shown up sooner?"

"Not necessarily," Foreman interjected. "Some infections can remain asymptomatic for years, especially if they're slow growing. It’s a long shot, but we should consider it."

I pointed my cane at the board. "Good. What else?"

"Could be related to her prosthetic," Chase offered. "Improper fit, causing chronic irritation, leading to an ulcer or infection in the stump." Haha, stump. 

I nodded. "Get a sample from her stump and run cultures. Check for any signs of infection, bacterial or fungal. What else?"

"Stress-induced gastritis?" Cameron suggested. "She’s been through a lot of stress and trauma."

"Possible," I conceded. "Get an upper endoscopy to check for any lesions or ulcers."

Chase scribbled the orders on his notepad and hurried out. Foreman and Cameron followed suit, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I stared at the whiteboard, the words blurring together.

Why did this feel so personal? Why did I care so much about this particular case? It wasn't just the challenge, though that was a part of it. It was her. Liliya. She had a fire, a determination to keep going despite everything life threw at her. And damn it, she was beautiful. That much was undeniable.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. Focus, House. She’s a patient, not a prostitute.

The results came back faster than I expected. No signs of infection in the stump. Cultures were negative. Upper endoscopy showed mild gastritis, but nothing that would cause severe hematemesis. We even got her drug tested in case maybe her drink was spiked.    

Damn it. What was I missing?

I stormed into Liliya’s room, the team trailing behind me. She looked up, her eyes dull with pain and exhaustion. I really hated that she was my patient.

She started to sit up, wincing. God, why do I care so much about this woman. "What isn’t in your medical file?”

[spookygiggles]

I had this In my drafts but its good so ima post it 👍

lee!spy/ ler!sniper ♥️

Spy and sniper were chilling out in his parked van. Smoking some cigarettes while sitting down in a small table area in the van, They were more like booth seats just on one side of the table, Afterall this isn't luxury, Its a camper.

Spy stood up and was planning Get a glass of his wine. But he noticed sniper trailed along with him.

"Aye mate, You know you should slow down on the drinkin'. " He suggested as he watched him grab the bottle. He placed it on the counter and as he reached up to grab a glass, He felt a grab on his side, Which startled him causing him to recoil and gasp.

"You alright mate? Did i hurt you?" He asked But Spy shook his head as he looked a bit nervous.

"Non, Non. Just startled me a bit." he tried to say in his normal calm manner but it sounded a bit off. To the point even the Bushman noticed it was something else in Particular. And thats when he realized.

"Are you ticklish?" He laughed. That felt like a bomb being drop onto Spy.

"No, No im not. Like i said you scared me." He said, Continuing to pour his glass and put the bottle away.

"I think you are lying." And As soon as he put down the bottle He reached back and started scribbling up and down his sides.

"NON! wahAhahit ! Do not!" He flinched then started to run away from the man, But theres not much place to go in a van. He Stumbled onto the bed And sniper followed along with him.

"Knock it off bushman!" He exclaimed as he play fighted the sniper who was trying to straddle him.

"Not sorry mate." He said as he was able to straddle Spy Even though he was curling in trying to protect sensitive spots.

Then he felt two hands squeeze and tickle at his sides again. Spy would never admit he likes to be tickled, But i think sniper could see through him.

"Nohoho! StoHAHP!" He squealed while a few snorts slipped out. Using a hand to cover his face out of embarrassment and the other protesting at snipers wrist by grabbing him.

This hands were swift and fast. He switched spots from his stomach to his armpits. Which drove spy up the wall and his legs kicked and flailed Helplessly. His suit being ridden up due to the struggle, Showing some bare skin around his belly. Which sparked an idea for Sniper.

He slipped his hands under and started scribbling at the bare skin underneath. Which made Spy go into a fit of snorts, Which he hated.

"Non! staHAHAP!" He said through his laughter because he was so distracted he was lost for words. All he could do was kick his legs desperately.

"Just a lil longer, I wanna see somethin." Sniper said, Laughing at the spies state underneath him. A giggly, Laughing and blushy mess. Sniper lifted up his shirt fully and Spy had noticed this action.

"Do not! I'm serious bushman.!" he said still giggling, so it definitely didnt seem as threatening but despite the protest from spy, He breathed in and blew out a huge raspberry right on his navel and then continued to do more around his sides and tummy, With hands scribbling and the bare skin of his hips. Just lightly teasing and tracing the area to not completely overwhelm him any further.It sent spy into a fit of snorts, which only added to the Embarrassment. This continued for a little until spies laughter had went scratchy and weak.

He stopped and took a look at him. He was messy, His clothing messed up, some of his hair fell out of his mask, and his face was all red while he was panting.

"Don't speak of this. I'm serious." he said while staring at him. Which only made Sniper laugh.

"I bet you are ticklish too, Mundy. So i would be careful if i were you. Now, Shall we finish the wine?" He said while adjusting his suit back to normal and recovered. And Sniper went from full confidence to slightly blushing at Spies remark, worried if he was gonna get revenge or not.

But he sat down with him anyways, And had a few glasses. It wasn't so bad hanging out with him afterall.

[crimeronan]

hi!! sorry if this has been asked before but i wanted to know if u had a specific editing process? ive read before that u edited ur fics for 6-8 hours and wanted to know what those hours consisted of, technically speaking, if its not too much trouble!!

hello!!

this is a really good question. i want to do it justice but breaking down every single detail of my editing process would take a VEEEERY long time. so i'll give more of an overview

some fics have a Much more involved editing process than others. so i can walk you through what both "processes" look like, step-wise. my most involved process produces the best work but is also the most time-consuming and exhausting.

to start, though: you gotta understand my first draft process. because whenever i tell other writers about how i draft, their responses range from "that's insane" to "that's so smart" to "that's insane. again."

i don't reread anything when i draft.

and i mean Anything. i don't reread a single sentence. i don't reread my phrasing as i'm writing it. i don't even check to make sure that my sentences make sense.

i just write out the entire story as i'm hearing / imagining it in my head. whatever moments, beats, dialogue, Whatever is most important to me. i don't edit as i go, i don't look back. if i can't think of details or lose my flow, i put [add X here] and keep going.

i usually have a bullet-point outline before i draft -- that's my scribbled concept sketch. my first draft is the equivalent to the slightly less scribbly concept sketch. it takes a MAXIMUM of one-third of my entire writing time.

the other two-thirds (or more!) are editing.

so basically. editing is where i reread what i wrote, identify weak spots and pacing issues, revise my dialogue, improve my metaphors, bulk up my imagery..... it's like doing all of the painstaking lining and coloring and shading of a very involved art project.

with my Most involved editing process, i open a new document beside the first draft. i write an entire second draft from scratch, using my first document as reference. that lets me keep all the important beats, rearrange stuff, go more in-depth with detail, etc. THEN i reread that second draft and do all of my fussing.

with my less involved editing process, i just reread and edit the first draft instead of creating an entire second draft. i also do fewer editing passes.

(the involved process includes editing the whole document once, putting it down for a few hours, then starting over from the beginning and editing the Edited Version all over again.)

it might be easier for me to show you the differences in fic quality, for you to get a sense of how the editing process affects things.... rather than trying to describe exactly what i look for / change / do / etc.

so. here's three recent (ish) toh fics

humans are friends. AND food - no editing.

why did love put a gun in my hand (and all other parts of this series) - basic first draft editing.

what we are is the sum of a thousand lies - 2 to 3 full drafts per chapter, 3 to 5 editing passes per chapter, ~30,000 words of outtakes beyond that.

with that vampire AU fic (#1), you can see that it's short, it's quick, it's silly and fun. it's not emotionally deep. it doesn't make much sense. it's very clearly based on Vibes instead of a fully considered story.

the princess luz fic (#2) is Significantly more involved. the increased detail here is partially because this is a horror series instead of a stupid humor romp, but the principle is the same.

all of luz's internal narration about her fear, the pacing of her interactions and confrontations with belos n hunter alike, the ugly body horror and the way she comforted the dying grimwalker... that's all from the editing process. the bare bones were there in my first draft, but my edits were where i got to make things Effective.

basically, i wrote the horror story the way i saw it in my mind. and then during the edit, i could ask questions like - what would make this worse? what is she really afraid of? what is the most LUZ reaction that she could have in this situation? what's the most effective way to show the differences between this luz and canon luz, and the similarities? etc etc etc. all those little details!

then you have wwaitsoatl. which is by Far the most energy-intensive fic i've ever written. that's part of why updates are so sporadic despite there being well over a thousand subscribers at the moment (FAR more than any of my other fics have ever had).

the reason that this fic requires so many drafts and editing passes is because of the sheer complexity of the characterization. the plot is pretty generic, as toh fics go - hunter gets kidnapped away from the castle and learns how to be loved, this fic has been written 100000 times before in 100000 different ways by 100000 different authors.

BUT. every single one of the four narrators in this particular story is unreliable in different ways. every single one has different priorities, motivations, baggage, feelings, levels of emotional intelligence. all four of them are in massive conflict with one another.

the conflicts Between the characters are similarly complicated, so i have to spend a LOOOONG time on all of the dialogue & interactions. these guys do a LOT of projecting, and arguing, and talking at cross-purposes, and making incorrect assumptions, and lying, and obfuscating, and on and on and on. clear communication is basically impossible.

the internal narration also requires a similar level of care. hunter and darius in particular have incredibly challenging POVs to write because all of their narration is tied up in denial, self-delusion, and facades.

hunter's nightmares, cognitive dissonance, and slow breakdowns take Hours And Hours And Hours to get right. same goes for darius's feelings and the things he says and the things he Doesn't say. i literally study every single individual sentence and rewrite it like 15 times, then study every individual paragraph and rewrite and rearrange them like 15 times. and if a scene isn't working, i cut it entirely, even when that adds up to 30,000 words of outtakes.

it's my most ambitious fic by a longshot and i'm confident in saying it's my best work to date. but hoo boy, it is WORK.

so. that's my editing process, basically! and how my editing process changes my final product.

[scorpiongrassfield]

A Quiet Afternoon In

Start | Prev

Once you’ve finished eating your late lunch, you join Pat. 

They’ve finished sorting and are now jotting down phrases on the post-its. 

“Here,” they say, handing you a pen and the sketchbook. “Try drawing or writing down anything that you think might be relevant to the case.” 

“I know how to draw?” 

Pat laughs softly. “I don’t think amnesia would make you forget that. Give it a try,” they say. 

You shrug. It can’t hurt to try. 

You try drawing the cabin. You scribble it out after you make a mistake and start over. Scribble out the next one, too. 

The third try comes out a little better, but it still doesn’t look right. 

“Do we have any pencils?” you ask. It’d be easier if you could erase things. 

“There should be some in my purse. It’s over by the door,” Pat says. 

Then, as an afterthought: “I’ve got some candy in there, too. Grab one for me and one for you?”

You agree and head over to their purse to look through it. 

You have to check through a few different pockets to find a pencil, but the candies are easy enough to find. 

They have green and purple wrappers. 

“Are these gin flavored?” you ask, wrinkling your nose as you read the label. You’re not eating that, even if you can’t taste anything. It’s the principle of the thing. 

“Nah, they’re caramels,” Pat says, not looking up from what they’re writing down. 

“Why are they called that, then?” you mutter as you hand Pat their piece. 

Pat shrugs. “Why do they name candies anything?” They ask rhetorically. They unwrap their candy and pop it in their mouth. 

They seem to be watching you closely as you eat your own. It’s chewy. 

“Good, right?” they ask. 

You feel like something is a little off, but then again Pat’s always been weird about making you eat. 

“Yeah, thanks,” you say. 

Pat just keeps looking at you for a long moment, then turns back to their task. 

You do the same. 

Drawing is easier with a pencil, but you’re still not too happy with it. Your drawing abilities aren’t horrible, but you still think it could be better. 

“You know…” Pat starts, but trails off. 

You hum in question, wondering what they want. 

They don’t say anything more for a while. 

You give up on drawing the cabin, or rather accept your imperfect 9th draft as good enough for now. 

Instead, you switch to drawing a portrait. 

You’re kind of envious of Theo’s skills, artistically. His style is very pretty. 

That said, you like your own style too. It’s fun and kind of cartoony. 

“Hey, Sylv?” Pat starts again. 

“Yes?” you say, looking up at them. 

They’re looking right back at you, their expression heavy with… something. An emotion you can’t quite read. 

“You know I’m always here for you, right?” they say. 

Before you can even answer them, they speak again. They’re smiling like they’re trying to make light of it, but the expression is strained, hanging on their face unnaturally. 

“Like, even if you are a vampire or… or something else like that. I’ve always got your back. No matter what,” they say. 

You furrow your brow. You aren’t sure what brought this on… 

“Yeah, I know,” you say. 

You haven’t known Pat for as long as they’ve known you, but you can tell they care a lot about you. 

“Good,” they say. “If you forget everything again, try to remember that? If not… I guess I’ll still be here for you,” they say, looking away again. 

You aren’t sure what to say to that, at first. 

Pat busies themself with reordering all the papers they have around them. 

After a while you find the words. 

“Thanks, Pat,” you say sincerely. 

Pat shrugs it off. “That’s what family is for, kid.” 

You think that’s the first time they’ve directly acknowledged what you are to them. Not an assistant, or a stray they took in, but family. 

Something must be wrong. 

But Pat just keeps working. Flipping through their journal for details they forgot, combining post it notes into one, doing some sketching of their own. 

The two of you work in parallel like that for a few hours. 

You manage to draw Pat, Theo, and the shadow. 

You do not manage to draw Concrete. Your attempts to draw the cat go catastrophically wrong and you conclude that you do not know how to draw cats at all. 

Eventually Pat straightens up from where they’ve been leaning over their notes, stretching, then shaking out the stretch. 

“Right, that’s enough of that,” they say. 

They tap their phone to see what time it is. 

“Hm… I know it’s been longer since I ate than it has been for you, but what do you think about dinner? We could try that Greek place we passed the other day,” they say. 

You sigh, closing the sketchbook. “That’s fine,” you say. 

“Sweet,” they say. They tidy up the mess of notes around them, then stand up. 

“Did you want to come with me, or stay here?” they ask. 

“I’ll stay here,” you say. 

“Okay. What do you want?” Pat asks, hand on their hip. 

You shrug. “You can pick.” 

“Okay,” they say. They pick up their purse on their way out the door. “Be good, don’t steal any blood while I’m gone,” they call. 

You roll your eyes, but don’t get a word in edgewise before the door is closed. 

Where would you even get blood from? The only person you’re capable of interacting with when Pat isn’t around is Theo. And he doesn’t exactly have blood to spare. 

Taking a break from drawing, you decide to look up the eight of swords. 

You check the same sites as before and find that you were sort of right about what the card means. It’s supposed to be about feeling trapped, but not necessarily being trapped. The blindfold is supposed to symbolize that a person is unable to see the way out of their problems, but that a way out does indeed exist.

But the shadow wasn’t blindfolded… 

As you try to find out more you notice something. 

If you focus hard enough, you realize there are results missing from your search. 

Not in a “the search engine took this result down” way, either. 

It’s like the menu at the diner. 

How did you not notice this before…? 

You try to focus harder on it, but it just gives you a headache. 

Oh well. 

You’ll have to look something else up instead. 

You look up ‘scorpion grass’ and ‘forget me nots’. 

There are some viewable results, which is nice. 

Forget-me-not is the most common name, apparently. Scorpion grass sounds cooler though, you think. It’d make a cool band name, maybe. 

The scientific name is… 

Myosotis sylvatica. 

Now your head really hurts. 

You fish the paper out of your pocket and look at it. 

The way it’s burned on either side of the word ‘sylv’... 

It could have been part of that phrase. 

And Pat said you were called My before you picked your new name. 

Did you name yourself after these flowers twice? 

You type in the full name to search. 

There’s a lot of information about the plants, which is interesting, but not helpful to you. 

You turn the paper over. “Was never found”, it says. 

You try typing that in. 

Nothing helpful comes up. 

You try that phrase along with ‘Myosotis sylvatica’. Nothing. 

You try again, this time with the phrase and ‘forget me nots’. 

Oh. 

There’s something. 

You can hear your blood pounding in your ears.

“Forget-Me-Not—The Girl Dressed In Blood” is the title. 

It seems to be the telling of some sort of urban legend. 

Pat seemed pretty firm on not messing with these things. 

But… 

It might not hurt to read it. 

Just to see what it’s about. 

What will you do?

Next

[holofoiltowercard]

The Journey of The Tarot Haiku

VII: The Chariot - Embarking on the Journey

Next to the Fool, the Chariot speaks most clearly about the start of a journey, with the added connotation of needing discipline and determination to stay on the path. The road is smooth and the goal is clear, you just need to keep to it is how I see it...

...so when it appeared in my Tarot readings about the book, I listened every single time.

But before that, it might be nice to talk about exactly how I got to actually finish the book, because again, I needed discipline and determination. It wasn't exactly hard, but it took effort. So after those first two poems, with Eight of Swords now fully covered (I am still in awe that it was the Eight of Swords, you don't often see that card as the start of anything good, do you?) and a few more poems coming along, I made that progress page I showed off in a previous post, and I set myself a goal of twenty poems. I'm sure that at one point, I adjusted just so I would have a total of X8 poems, in order for the new batches of twenty poems to seamlessly land me at 188. And from there, the writing process began.

I didn't write every day. I didn't get a burst of divine inspiration each time. But I did, whenever I had the time, take out my cards and a notebook and looked the cards over, to see if any caught my eye and turned the gears - if they did, good, if they didn't, at least I tried. I also remember one time having to travel to another city, finding some time on my hands, and scribbling into a notebook as I waited for others to do business. I didn't have the cards out since we were constantly moving about, but the notebook I could manage. Sometimes I could only do a single poem or a draft of one, and other times I got inspiration for several at once. Sometimes I focused my attention and only studied the Suit of Cups or the Suit of Swords, and other times I was glad to grasp at anything. Those two suits were the first to be finished back in the day - they came much more easily than the other two or the Major Arcana. Indeed, my last card, the last poem I had to write was for the reversed Knight of Wands, which to me speaks of your progress stuttering because your energies are scattered...

And then the readings came. I finished all the poems sometime in early September - I can't even tell you what day because my bullet journaling has been very scanty. But I did thankfully jot down the big reading I did on September 17th, when I started asking the Tarot questions about publishing:

What might I experience if I...

...published under my real name / a pseudonym?

...published in October / November / December?

I found the real name and October the most favorable answers - December also had promise so I gave it a shot, but when I did a reading about it and asked if I should aim for so and so dates, the answers didn't feel encouraging, so I returned to October, which I had been drawn to from the start.

With Tarot having so many ties and attractions to mysticism, I thought of October and saw three possible dates to aim for: the new moon, the full moon, and Halloween. Accordingly, I drew a card for each, and the full moon got the Ten of Cups, which was lovely, but the new moon got The Chariot.

I love the Ten of Cups as much as the next person, but when I saw that Major Arcana, suggesting I could embark on a whole new journey after so much stagnation (the pandemic not only affected me personally as a source of isolation, stress and grief, but also destroyed my previous sources of income), I said to myself, it has to be the new moon. This is it. I deserve to step onto a new, better path and I'm going to do it.

Mind you, I was struggling. Not so much with discipline or determination as with mental illness, so progress was sometimes slow and anxious. But I gently pushed myself along - "do it scared" is a phrase that described me well, because I knew so little about self-publishing, and even when you read up on it, actually doing it is a totally different experience of doing and waiting. And when at last I was there, and had to price the ebook... I input 7 dollars, 7 standing for The Chariot. The paperback was then priced 28 dollars to account for printing costs, 7 being multiplied by four. The hardcover would have also followed this pattern and be 35 dollars, but when I did a reading just to check in, I kept getting reversed cards for 30 dollars, 33 dollars, etc., until 34 dollars landed me an approving Six of Cups. I later realized that 3 + 4 = 7.

Thank you, Chariot. Because of you, the book is now out, and with luck and support, it might just reach those who will appreciate and love it, and give me a new chance at life.

Buy the ebook

Buy the paperback

Buy the hardcover

[verse-the-comic]

Oh yeah, I meant to properly answer that question. Thank you for reminding me.

So I’m not an expert by any means when it comes to comic writing as a general scope - Seeker was done with a general outline and then making shit up as I went along. That worked fairly well for what that comic is, but I’m definitely not doing that with Verse. Verse does not have people directing the characters’ actions this time around. It’s me with a bunch of scenarios I’ve cooked up in my brain over the course of, like, 12 years.

So! My current method of outlining has been this:

Write down the list of events I want to happen but don’t have an order for. No details, just the very basics.

Look these events over, possibly add more in, and arrange them in order of when I want them to happen as well as when these events would be best to happen.

Think of ways to connect these events together. List those linking events as well, also in order.

Look it over.

Fuck, this pacing sucks.

I can make it work, hold on.

Get a big ol’ Word doc and start writing down chapters. Outline what happens in the chapters in much more detail than the event list.

Lose traction on that about 3/4ths of the way through and write out the rest of the story in detail, just sans chapter outline style.

Look it over.

I did not make it work.

Hold on.

Go over the chapter outline with a fine-toothed comb, scribble down notes of what doesn’t work, what I should add in here or there, and gather all these notes together.

Realize how little meat there is in this story and put the plotting on hold to worldbuild and get more story ideas.

I’m still on 13, but I’m working on it as we speak. Really, I should have had my worldbuilding done before I got to plotting, but in my defense, this world and story and these characters have been cobbled together from years of just thinking about them and not writing anything down while I wrote Seeker.

As you can see, this is not a very academic list of actions, but it’s what I’ve been doing. What I would suggest, to make things easier and more streamlined, is to write an overall vague and broad outline of the comic’s story, then slowly get more and more specific on events while working on the setting for further ideas and depth. After I have my further ideas organized and I finish this second draft, which who knows how long that’ll take me, I will get to actually scripting the comic, and then drawing it.

Clumsy advice, it is, yes, but you get what you paid for, I guess.

[preciadosbass]

15/8/24 [1 DIY/2, if you concider the jacket diy due to the custom aspects + got 2 CDS!! key & significant photos at end]

reguarding the end of yesterdays journal, the update for when i actually went to sleep was 3:40-50. i woke up today at 8, fed boris and briefly said goodmorning to him, checked my socials, and got to adding a new addition to the things i post. i’ve decided to do weekly recaps/highlights to focus on the cool things i’ve done because i can imagine most people dont want to read the long journals i write and find out if there’s anything interesting hidden in there. i therefore started screenshotting parts of my previous journals to write it down and make a draft/drafts. at 9:20 i started making just random drafts, like unposted pictures ive taken at reptile experience, things like that.

AND saw the new gerard way sighting via my tumblr feed!! apparently he was at the cinema again XD — at 9:30 i started downloading drawing references of my fav musicians and got to drawing my killjoy oc again at the same sort of time. i finished at 10:30 and had to keep on redrawing stuff before uploading it to my phone because i couldn’t find a layer id drawn scribbles on so i could delete it lmaoo // i’m not really happy with how it came out, look for more than a quarter of a millisecond and you notice everything wrong with it. hopefully if i keep up drawing everyday i’ll improve.

i cant expect much from a second time drawing since like 4 years ago but i’m just disappointed. everyone else on here is so talented *cries /hj* i scrolled on scenemo-related posts on my tiktok feed until getting ready to go out. i didn’t plan on going out today, mostly because i thought i’d be sleeping all day, but i didn’t have the urge to go back to sleep so i tagged along to see some family with my parents. i got dressed into my dark cargo jorts [told you i’d be wearing these a lot] and my skinless shirt, as that and my silent hill shirt are the only ones that go with the cargos. i also accidentally forgot all of my bracelets, so i felt naked the entire time i was out. 11:20, i went outside with boris.

he was SO affectionate and spent the whole time i was out there circling around me while pressing his-self onto my back and then going over to my hand to nudge it, and prompt me to stroke him. he’s like this almost all the time but something about it today just made me more happy than usual. i literally couldnt stop smiling. like he was propped up on me that’s so adorable 😭. i must’ve looked crazy to all the people driving past though. i stayed out until 12:10 when i had to leave.

i went out to see my grandad at his assisted living facility, his daughter [my distant aunt], and my other grandad, of whom i didn’t know was coming until we got there. i listened to underoath and paramore during the car ride and we got there at 12:30. i was greeted by the care home’s cat and with my grandad [the one who lives independently] WITH LITERALLY JUST HIS FRONT TEETH AND NO OTHER ONES APART FROM HIS BOTTOM SET 😭 he talked about something to do with this when i came round his house not too long ago but i thought he’d have more than two?? just joking, he found it funny i was surprised too.

the care home had this outside music thingy on so me, my mum, and my mums dad sat in the garden while my aunt and dad wheeled my grandad down to our table. he wasn’t as unresponsive as he sometimes is today. it was clear he tried to make conversation and said a few things which were just so - him. [he has dementia and dosent usually speak/has little to no mobility to an extent/has been this way since i can remember etc. just tryna give you an idea of why this was amazing.] a few times he came out with like, full sentences, which was nice to hear. my aunt also gave me the can tabs shes been collecting for me. me and my dad left to go charity shopping [thrifting] at 2, while the others stayed. we went into at least seven/eight and in the third i found an evanescence cd RAA - such a good find. not even a minute later my dad pointed out an avril lavigne cd which i also took and bought.

i cant wait to play them both, i just need to find something to do while listening. i’m bad at just listening to music without another task, i end up focusing on my thoughts and not taking in or processing any of the lyrics etc. me and dad walked back to the home and sat with the others for a bit before my dad and aunt took my grandad back up to the living room area. to be fair it was getting colder and we had to head off anyways. he didn’t like the lift very much but they eventually got him into his signature chair around all of his housemates and i said goodbye to him. i gave him a hug and he kissed me on the top of my head without any prompt whatsoever, which was heartwarming. we starting driving back at 3 and i listened to gerard way on the way home before having not even a minute long nap.

we got home at 3:10 and boris was so happy to see me. he ran up to the car once we’d parked and meowed at me while lifting up his head for me to stroke it. i stayed outside with him and added the new can tabs to my tab bracelet. it was enough to finish it so i tied it off and it’s a perfect fit. its big enough to go down my arm a bit, but not big enough to fall off my wrist. at 4:50 i randomly sparked an idea to make an upcycled necklace with one of my favourite musicians on it. i didn’t have any pictures of jaime or chi that were small enough to fit on a bottlecap, so i resorted to a print of kellin quinn. my dad drilled holes through a corona bottlecap and once he was done i used mod-podge to still the picture onto it. i left it to dry on a book and went back outside with boris.

he came inside to sit on the table so i also sat there with him until around 7:20 as my phone ran out. while i was sitting with him however, i attempted to draw my killjoy oc again. its honestly embarrassing so i’m never letting anyone see it and i hope i neevr do again — but it’s a shame because i genuinely thought it’d turn out alright. in my room i checked to see if my necklace had dried [it had], doomscrolled on tiktok, and saved outfit inspo. this lasted up until 8:30 and at this time i got dressed again to try on one of the outfits in question, just so i knew how it looked on me so i can wear it the next time i do something.

the outfit was: [there’s a photo at the end but you can’t see a few things because of the lighting] a sleeping with sirens shirt, with a long sleeved burgundy shirt underneath it rolled up to just above my elbows. with my can tab bracelet, a studded single rowed cuff, a wooden bracelet, a string bracelet consisting of lots of shades of blue, an earth colour schemed crystal ball bracelet, ripped skinny jeans, and a sleeping with sirens band bracelet. after taking photos for journal reference and so i don’t forget anything when i wear it, i found a plain black zip up jacket. i took a few pins off my backpack and added them to the pockets and neck piece/line.

they consisted of: a saw pin, a paper clip with the gay flag on [again, not even really because i’m gay - i just love the colours, a paper clip with a black stone/crystal sphere attatched, a pin implying taxidermy, a kellin quinn pin, and a pentagram pin. i tried it on, and maybe it’s just because of the general heat [although i tried it on at night and my room dosent have a working radiator or anything] but it warms me up almost immediately. which is great because i haven’t worn a coat since i started dressing alt and im always cold. i did all of the above while listening to my new evanescence cd — my favourite song from the album hasnt changed, its imaginary. afterwards i went out to the kitchen table and sat with boris.

my sister suddenly [i say suddenly, she’s always like this - which is why it’s so draining.] started screaming at the top of her lungs and jumping and punching the floor [the ceiling above the kitchen] and it was terrifying boris and archie. boris was already panicking, and then it set off the dog because he must’ve thought someone was dying. it was deafening. i went upstairs, frustrated, because she genuinely acts like she dosent share a house with anyone else and screams while gaming everyday; despite also being told to quiet down everyday. she also knows how loud she’s being, and how sound sensitive me and the animals are. anyway, i asked her to be quiet because she’s scaring boris [in an slight angry tone, because it was angering. but not like, anywhere near shouting.] and she replied with something along the lines of ‘no im not, and i don’t care.’

i told her to stop again and she shook her head and continued speaking to whoever she was playing a game with. i just said her name, again, implying for her to stop and she smirked and started waving at me. i said ‘what is wrong with you?’, she told me she hates me, and i walked off. then i cried for like 30mins because i felt guilty about saying that. i’m just really sick and tired of my cat, who lives here, feeling scared in his own home because of her. aswell as me, i also feel on edge here because of the whole screaming thing, and how angry she gets over it when she’s told to shut her door or quiet down. [shutting doors dosent make a difference though, as our house is from the 1800s and the walls are paper thin.] i carried on accompanying boris and made a couple of gerard way gifs at 11.

i went into my room for a split second and when i came back i saw that boris was sitting in corner beside the doorway of the kitchen. which i immediately thought was really weird, and then i saw that he’d been sick. i called my dad because i don’t know how to clean stuff like that up from our old floors and tried my best to comfort him. he wasn’t really having it, which makes sense because he obviously couldn’t have been feeling good. it was a hairball, thankfully [and unkthankfully, of course], most likely due to him licking/biting out lots of his hair because of the bugs from outside getting on him. my mum will be giving him treatment for it soon, it’s just always trouble when its applied, because he gets very agitated and one he runs away, your not getting another chance. and if you do get through to him and apply the treatment, you can’t really fuss him for over a day.

which is such an obstacle for me because i try my best to spend a lot, if not all, of my free time with him. he kept on wanting to go outside afterwards, so i left him to his own devices as he was still quite skittish over being around anyone. at 12:20 i was in my room after checking if he wanted to come in, when i decided i was gunna nap. i slept on and off for 10 minutes before my mum came back from being out with her friend. i napped again, this time on and off for 15-20 minutes. she came back once id woken up and let boris in with her. he straight away had something to eat at the bowls outside my room’s door and was purring. my mum told me that it was raining outside so i felt terrible that id accidentally left him out there while i slept. hopefully he managed to get under my dads car/the bit over the front door but he was clearly wet.

i attempted to fuss him and apologise. i spoke to my mum about why i think he’s not okay and then got the yes to coming up and doing the questions. on the way upstairs, boris followed me round the living room and onto the living room table. he put his head back for me to stroke it and purred again. which sort of gave me the idea that he was/is feeling better, which i hope with every part of me is the case. upon going up to ask the questions, my sister got into a huge heated argument with my parents over some update that’s coming to one of the game she plays tomorrow. she said that it’s being released at 4am our [UK] time.

my mum said my sister could put an alarm on her phone, but she said that it won’t wake her up and started begging my parents to wake up at 4 to get her up. they said no and she started screaming and everything. she finally went into her room after my dad looked it up and found out it’s allegedly happening at 9, so she got her phone back for 10 minutes to put on another alarm and tell her friend that the original time is most likely wrong. i started doing my questions after my sister agreed she wouldn’t disrupt them and everything would still be okay, even though she’s not supposed to be awake when i do things like this. mainly because of change in routine.

i started doing my questions and she came into my parents room and i had to stop. she eventually left after kind of verifying that didn’t mess everything up and i finished doing my questions. i actually managed to get downstairs at 2:25, so that’s also when i finished them. it took longer that it should’ve because of the really long argument and after boris being sick, i had even more reasons to believe he isn’t okay. and, my parents didn’t ask me to do them until quite late. i went on to pour myself some icy water, feed boris, do my teeth, and then say goodnight to boris.

i showed him what i’d done today and fed him his treats like always. he was purring like crazy throughout the whole time i was speaking to him which made me feel really relaxed. i finished at an unknown time [i thought i logged it but apparently not] and went to sleep at 4:10.

🗝️ — boris/my cat, archie/immediate family’s dog, questions [about boris]/i ask my parents questions about my cat to verify he’s okay + will be okay in the morning. its a compulsive thing and i’m hopefully going to be tested for OCD in the future.

have a good day/night O_o

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Chapter 2: Seeking and Waiting

Narrated by the design.

Yexiao: I think I've seen flowers like this before... but where?

Narrator: I hear a clear voice, but it's distant. Darkness surrounds me, and I cannot see anything.

Yexiao: Something is missing.

Narrator: The voice seems to be speaking to me, but also seems to be muttering to itself.

Yexiao: Perhaps something special? A spring morning, the first shaft of light breaking through the rain, or maybe something else...

Narrator: The voice is pleasant, but I can't understand what she is saying. I don't know what spring is, or rain, or sunshine.

Narrator: Following her murmuring and the rasp of a pencil, I gradually take form.

Narrator: It's the sound of a pencil moving across the paper, and something warm causes my soul to wake up.

Narrator: Bathing in the warmth of brilliant lights, I open up my eyes.

Yexiao: Although I'm still not done, at least there's progress.

Narrator: I see her scribble some letters at the bottom of the draft.

Narrator: Yexiao.

Narrator: Her name.

Narrator: I can see her, and feel the gentle touch of her pencil, but I can't communicate with her.

Narrator: I'm an unfinished draft, and without her final touches, I am not a complete soul.

Choose either "So you could only look at her?" or "Why wouldn't Yexiao let you finish the drawing?"

If "look," ...

You: So you could only watch her?

Narrator: We were together for a long time... although it was probably short for her.

If "finish," ...

You: Why didn't Yexiao finish drawing you?

Narrator: Yexiao always felt that "something was missing," and I waited, waited for her to finish me.

--

Narrator: Yexiao brought me to many places, and I was a silent traveler accompanying her.

Narrator: I had no sense of time, but Yexiao always seemed to have a lot of time, and never rushed our travels.

Narrator: We left Cloudcrest, passing through the luxurious Zither River and Azureink by the sea, where the sky was always gray.

Yexiao: Is it here? It should be, I think?

Narrator: Yexiao gets lost often, and was almost sent back to Cloudcrest by the police because of this.

Narrator: It seems like the roads in reality don't match with the map in her mind, so she relies on her intuitions.

Narrator: That day, walking along a small stream, Yexiao got lost again.

Narrator: This world has many streams like this, clear, gentle, dancing through the forests and fields.

Narrator: But perhaps this stream was unique, since Yexiao found what she was looking for by following this path.

Narrator: The stream leads to an abandoned village. The years had eaten away at the buildings for at least a century.

Narrator: At first, Yexiao can only stare at the deserted village.

Narrator: She walks into the town, stepping on fallen leaves, and as if pulled along by a string, walks into a courtyard.

Narrator: The ropes of a swing lay rotten among blossoming flowers that billow petals in the wind.

Narrator: Spring, morning, after a bout of rain. The first ray of sunlight shines down. It's all perfect.

Yexiao: So that's what it is. It's here.

Narrator: Yexiao pushes open a dusty door. The design of the room is strange yet simple, and a teacup rests on a table.

Narrator: The furniture rests undisturbed, as if in one moment there were people living here, and in the next moment they were gone.

Narrator: Yexiao dusts the table, puts down her drawing board, and lays me out again.

Yexiao: After searching for so long, I can finally continue.

Narrator: Her voice was always calm, gentle and clear. She was determined to complete me.

Yexiao: Just a little more.

Narrator: Perhaps because I had travelled with her for too long, I grew tired and fell deep into sleep.

Narrator: I dreamt of something, perhaps, if designs could dream.

Narrator: I dreamed of when the village was still not abandoned, irises blooming, ivies snaking across the walls like a designer drawing.

Narrator: Rain had just fallen, and the stone road is still wet. If there were a smell to morning dew, then it must be sweet.

Narrator: From the window wafts the aroma of somebody making steamed buns.

Narrator: A girl plays on a swing set in the courtyard. She extends her feet at the height of the swing, and retracts them when going back.

Narrator: She wears ancient clothing, little bells tied to her ankle. When the swing goes up, the bells ring in response.

Narrator: Ring, ring.

Narrator: The girl is happy. She smiles as brilliantly as the sunlight that shines down on her.

Woman's Voice: Yexiao, time for breakfast!

Missy: Alright, I'm coming!

Narrator: The girl stumbles off the swing onto the ground. She sits for a while before picking herself up and running into the room.

Missy: What are we having today? Dumplings? Steamed buns?

Narrator: I hear voices from the house.

Missy: Oh, meat buns.

Missy: Are we having hot pot tonight?

Missy: Meeps, time to wake up Meeps...

Narrator: Are these memories that Yexiao had forgotten? Are they coming back to her now?

Narrator: I don't know how much time has passed when I wake up, and when I do, I'm back in Cloudcrest.

Narrator: Yexiao isn't home, and the room is dark.

Narrator: And so I wait. I waited quietly in that room for almost as long as Yexiao had travelled.

Narrator: Finally, I hear the door open, sunlight pouring into the dark room.

Yexiao: *cough* It's dusty.

Narrator: It's Yexiao, she's back. She picks me up from the table.

Yexiao: This drawing looks familiar, when did I draw it? I don't think it's finished.

Narrator: She forgets again. She forgets me, and probably forgets those memories she struggled to get past.

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

[d3butinthespotlight]

So uh, it’s not done but I’ve learned that I can’t just keep saying “I’ll do this” and “I’ll do that” without actually showing I can write or that I’m putting time into this.

I have no plans for this scenes chronological order yet and it’s most definitely a spoiler but hey, I need to start somewhere!

I’m not going to provide any context to this scene, simply bcs I’m curious on if I’ve managed to convey the scene in a cohesive manner. I would really appreciate it if you could take maybe 5 minutes to maybe just read this and give me some feedback🙇‍♀️

————————————————Scene Starts Below

My head was cocked to the side as I took in the screens covering the room— floor to ceiling. Screens upon screens displaying video footage of every possible area humans inhabited; a majority unknown to me before this moment. I shift over to look at the few pitch-black screens taking over the most cluttered part of the room, no doubt they were for Eden—shut off before Don came to get me. My gaze drifted to the rest of the room. Below, several tables are either empty, with more computers, or strewn with papers. A perfected scribble lined each piece of paper, carefully printed and arranged with a pen. I thought it was almost hard to look at.

On one of the tables, a small stack caught my eye. An unfinished project by the red pen in its margins. Those were a rare thing to just find out in the open. The words at the top labeled it in bold lettering as Project: Salem. My feet carried me to it before the less curious side of my brain spewed hesitancy.

The paper was flimsy and cold in my hand, with dozens of oddly imperfect scribbles written in red filled between any space. Quickly scanning over the draft looking for notable words, I noted the word Calypso scrawled several times in the margins, but with no other information, it occurred enough to be important. My mind spun to fill in the blanks. ‘Calypso’ was a name— but of who? Or what? A person's name or a weapon? Each time the name occurred in the margins a red underline was next to it in the text. It was certainly a key player by the looks of it.

“Found interest in my latest project? I have been working on it for quite some time; there were quite a few kinks to work out.” My eyes snapped to Don behind me. A proud smile grew on his face, “It has been quite some time since we were last in each other's presence. I believe I forgot how quick of a reader you were, and how nosy you could be as well.”

So, he finally decided to speak up.

“Never mind my latest passion project, Madeline, I am sure you are wondering why I dragged you here.” I frowned. He dragged me here as much as I came willingly all while avoiding what he wanted. I placed the unfinished project down and leaned against the table facing him, gesturing to him.

“You wish to induce me into another one of your schemes. I am not stupid, Don. That’s what it’s always been with you.”

A smile grew on his face. His smile never reached his eyes. Liar and a cheat—but one of the few people I could rely on to always follow his beliefs. “Madeline, sit, please.” He gestured to the left, towards a small sitting area. I watched the direction Don had started walking in before making my way to the chair opposite him.

Don sat stiffly in the chair, unmoving as I shifted to make myself comfortable. The stiffness of the chair despite its cushions sent tremors down my back and leg. The pain there from walking was starting to get to me “Ah, and it is just us here— you do not need to keep the mask on. Ugly hideous contraptions are they not?”

I stopped moving as soon as I’d found a comfortable position and looked at him—a brow raised but no other emotion evident on my face “An odd request, you obviously know it’s me. So why should I remove my mask?”

“Why should I remove my mask?” My eyes narrowed at him as he parroted me. A laugh broke the silence that followed, “Oh no need be so suspicious! I do know you are, well, you. You are a sight though without it, — come on, it has been years since I saw you. Grant an old friend one request?”

“Last time I checked, you’re the one who designed these things. And you haven’t answered why you took me here.“ I let out a deep breath as I felt annoyance setting in. “Don, could we just skip all this? Why did you bring me here?“

A smile grew on his face. “Always quick to the point.”

“Well then, you have figured out I require your..specific set of skills again and I can assure you this will be worth your while. I will skip all my usual theatrics, promise.” This whole time has been theatrics, all it ever is. That fake smile shone on his face as he folded his hands in his lap and leaned back. “I have decided to move forward with a plan that has been a couple of years in the making. I can promise you it will benefit what is left of mankind and avenge those who deserve it. Everything, Madeline, is set up for my plan to be put into action. Everything, but you.”

My thoughts began to spin, from what I knew Don’s schemes had ended years ago. He took Eden over a decade ago and all but destroyed any rebels. He had total control of the remainder of the human race. One thing formed in the chaos of my thoughts.

“My family, they won’t be hurt in your plan?” A sinister glint in his eyes was the only indication of his true thoughts.

“I am quite hurt, Madeline! I thought you would be more trusting about our deal.”

I gave him a look, “The theatrics?”

“Ah yes, no, your family would not be hurt. This plan will barely require Eden to be physically used, I need only its people. I can reassure you, your family will not be hurt, not on purpose or accident—though, only if you do your part right.”

I shifted and gazed at the computers past him, taking in the dozens of scenes flicking across them. This was a delicate operation if he needed to use me—he would have done something already. Outright violence was not needed in this plan, and based on Salem it wouldn't be a quick gig. Eden wasn't being used so this isn't about getting rid of people, well the people of Eden, assumably the scientists and infected was what Don needed—

“It's the aliens, Madeline.” My gaze snapped onto Don quick enough to read his amused expression. Now he looked more like the Don I remembered, not the polite figure he'd put on in recent years. However, my lips pursed at the new information. The aliens—Kiryik in their tongue—had arrived roughly 4 years ago and had quickly settled in. I turned back around to Don, he’d finally stumped me.

“Why? I can't see why you'd need anything from them.” I could come up with a few ideas on what he'd want from them, but nothing that required me.

His grin grew as he seemed to drop the persona, “You always figure out things too fast. Though. I suppose you'd need such a skill in your line of work.” Don leaned forward toward me, the way his eyes shifted I knew he was serious, “Madeline, I found evidence of how the fungus got on Earth, and these aliens are the only ones with the information I need.”

My body froze, everything else about his body language suggested he was being serious. But it wasn't possible. Not in a million years.

“When?” A full question wasn't needed. We'd known each other long enough for him to fill in the blanks.

“The leak was first discovered by my agents about 2 years ago. I've held off this long to confirm it. Those aliens are the ones who have the final part of this equation.”

“They caused it? But I— we never found anything that implied they had anything to do with it? My sources confirmed this years ago, the Kiryik had nothing to do with the infection and I know for a fact they are still unaware of us.”

Don shook his head, “You are right, they don't know about Eden or any other survivors. But, —“My brows furrowed, “—they know who did it.”

“Clarify, Don.”

“Ahem, some higher-ups in their hierarchy know who did it. I know this—I know what you're going to say– and I know that because those same have been covering up our presence.” I could swear to God he just said they didn't know about us.

“I’m failing to see where this is connected.”

I spared a quick glance at his face, a small twitch in his eye from my interruption but he was still being serious.

“We know this, yes, and it always struck as weird and 2 years ago one of my agents intercepted a message from New Rome detailing our ‘survival’ and the fungus' persistence. Since then we have discovered a network of these messages. They never expected to be caught since everything is sent on the same frequency. So far, around 13 individuals have been identified. They are all high ranking in their hierarchy and have been carefully erasing any mention or evidence about humanity's existence.”

A worried look crossed his face for a second—the exact look he always made before saying something stupid, “Madeline, now promise me you'll hear me out.” He sounded desperate this time though; narrowing my eyes I nodded for him to continue. His next words came out so quickly I almost missed them, “The start of the plan is to initiate first contact.” Well, it is nice to know he is still insane at least.

Words tumbled out before I could change them, “Are you crazy? From what you just said that'd be like waking into a lion's den! Hell, I know you'd do this with or without my help— but are you kidding?” I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. He had to be kidding. What the hell was his plan? Normally— normally I could see some map of logic, but there was none in this. This man was exasperating.

I recollected myself before looking at him again,“Fine! I'll hear you out; my part in this plan is?”

Don seemed to sigh in relief and leaned back into his chair, “First contact itself won't be hard, neither will be finding people to fill any parts I need. The issue comes after, which is where I need you to come in. From what my men have observed they are incredibly private— annoyingly so. I know enough that we can't just walk in and ask for the passwords.” He paused as though considering his next words, “You have a way of making people trust what you say and..I know I can trust you to maintain a separation of emotion and mission.”

I watched as he tensed, my own mind going back to what he was referencing. I'd shot him years ago in an attempt to stop him. Hell of a lot of good that did, he still managed to take control of Eden with a bullet in his chest. I could feel my gaze shift lower to where I assumed the scar was. Now I knew what he wanted from me; we had been close before he executed his takeover and during I had him cornered in the old control center. I shot him then. Hadn't even thought it through when I pulled the trigger. A separation of our friendship and my duty to Eden.

A long moment of pause passed between us before I spoke up, “Ok…I get what your deal is. You need someone to get close enough to one of them and still trust they could follow through with what you need to be done. But do you seriously need me to just befriend them? My role here is to socialize?.” Picking a random alien was gonna be difficult though. Not with the secrets but with their personalities. I couldn't guarantee what they would be like.

“I can also assure you that that won't be all you'll be doing. I need your diplomatic skills as well. You will enter the plan as my interpreter and don't worry, you'll have the freedom to interpret or add as you see fit.”

I looked at him confused for a second, “But, we have translators? What use would, oh, no I see what you're saying.” Don would feign ignorance to what was being said while I played intermediary. An old classic he liked to use still, I suppose.

“And another thing, Madeline, you needn't worry about selecting one. I have..arranged for a member of their race to be transferred to Earth.” I’m not sure I want to know how.

“And they know everything you need?”

Don simply shrugged, “I assume. He would have high enough clearance or would be able to provide you with a means of accessing higher clearance. As the Patriarch’s closest bodyguard, he is the perfect target.”