#writing post

[joannasteez]

…writers im curious, whats your process? multiple drafts? playlists? do you visualize the scene before you start? do you need noise? do you need quiet?…

[losingallchill]

vampire vampire vampire

major tags: fish n chips , vampire au word count: ongoing summary: “so what’s the job then?” chip had asked, trying to remain casual in the face of his brother. “some easy catch that i can get done quickly? a girl who got bitten and hides herself in the shadows to prevent people from seeing what a monster she is?”

“even better,” reuben had said. “someone who no one has come back alive from visiting. even other hunters have died trying to get this guy. get him, and no one will ever be able to besmirch your name again.”

aka chip is a vampire hunter and gillion is a vampire

[eclipticcrow]

New Chapter out Now!!

[blazethecheeto]

let it out and let it go

Summary: Logan is angry. Logan has been angry for a long, long time. When things get worse, Patton steps in to help.

Words: 3,937

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdowns, Implied/Referenced Self Harm

|| ao3 link ||

___________________________________________

i am so, so angry, but it is caged.

can you blame me for taking a knife and hoping that if i cut long enough, deep enough, it will finally find a way to leave?

-

The argument is as familiar as the sun setting. Roman’s yelling about Logan cutting out ‘karaoke night’ from Thomas’s schedule, and Logan’s trying to address how little time they have left to finish their next commitment. There’s overlapping voices, there’s lots of swearing, and Patton’s about to step in to break up the fight when someone else does. 

“–So suddenly having a bit of fun is irrelevant in our schedule now?” Roman motions to Thomas’s general direction. 

Logan scoffs. “Having a ‘bit of fun’ is not the priority. Thomas needs to finish his work, the work he promised to get done by tonight. Then, and only then, can he fulfill other frivolous matters like karaoke.”

"Can't you see, Logan?" Roman gestures emphatically towards Thomas. "He needs a break, a moment of respite from the constant labour you put him through! He's not a machine . "

Unlike you.

The unspoken words linger for a brief, horrible moment between them, and Patton presses his hands together, cracking his knuckles nervously as he watches Logan’s face. He merely closes his eyes, clenching his jaw, before speaking again.

“We cannot afford any distractions tonight. He needs to take some responsibility for once .”

“Excuse me, he needs this, not only to improve his voice for tomorrow’s rehearsal, but to spend time with his friends.” Roman’s voice drops, becomes gritty and mean. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You don’t have any .” 

The silence in the room seems to swallow the rest of the tension. Roman’s hand flies to his mouth, but the damage is done. The glass cracks. The stone drops. Patton’s eyes dart to Logan. He grinds his teeth together, and he can see the glare in his glasses flash a shade of deep orange. No . 

“Logan, I– I’m sorry–” Roman says first, his words choppy and hesitant, like he is trying to calm an unleashed beast. 

“Sorry? Oh, you’re fucking sorry. Now I’ll just sink out and let you have your way, right?” He says, his voice overlapping with a familiar wrath, his shadow on the stairs behind him growing and growing. 

Virgil appears, almost suddenly, scaring Patton out of his wits. He thought he had grown used to it by now, but it seems like he hasn’t grown used to anything. 

“What the hell is going on?” Virgil’s voice is multiplied, his eyes darting back and forth between the three Sides. 

“Roman said I don’t have any friends!” Logan’s words are clipped, almost in a sing-song voice. Like something had taken control, and none of them wanted to say it. “Interesting isn’t it, how you team up with me when it’s convenient, then lash out when I dare to contradict your egotistical views.”

He took a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. The shadow crawling up behind Logan, waiting to strike. Virgil’s face goes pale once he sees it.

“Logan, of course you have friends, don’t listen to his bullshit. You’re better than him.” Virgil growls, his voice low and masking his terror, and Patton has a feeling he isn’t talking about Roman anymore.

“Do you think I’m angry about not forming interpersonal bonds? That despite it all, I am not a true part of this family?” He presses his hands against his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m not, I’m not .”

His voice distorts with every repetition, and Thomas and Roman exchange a desperate look. Virgil bites his tongue, cursing under his breath. 

Patton hesitates, then reaches out to him.

“Lo–”

He whips his head to Patton, and in that moment, his stomach drops with certainty. They had lost him. “ Fuck. You. Patton . You think you know what’s right and wrong, what’s good and evil?”

The figure laughs, his hair messy and his tie askew. He turns to face Roman, his grin tiger-sharp and his anger radiating off of his skin. “You don’t know true justice.” 

Virgil closes his eyes. Thomas backs away. Roman screams.

The figure pounces.

-

Logan isn’t quite sure what’s in his mind and what’s real until after he regains control. 

He remembers the feeling of skin in his hands, of flesh as it gets ripped off, of slaps and punches and screaming until his throat is raw. He remembers Patton holding him back, his blue eyes meeting him in one breath of air before he is drowning again. 

He is drowning in the orange haze, buried underneath years of repressed pain and ignorance. He feels as if he cannot breathe. He feels like he might die under the haze, underneath the blur of violence and horrid sounds he cannot control. He cries out for Patton, for Thomas, for Virgil. They don’t come. 

When everything subsides, he is in his room again, his hands tied down to the bed. His tie is askew, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, but he is physically alright. Of course I am, he reminds himself. He is nothing more than a figment of Thomas’s imagination. Even the damage dealt to the others will heal. He swears he can feel blood dripping from his hands, but when he looks, they are pale and dry.

A thorn twists inside him, but he knows they tied him up for his own good. With one grunt, Logan yanks the restraints off and sits up, the silence overwhelming. 

He sits and breathes in the smoke. His bed is made, smoothed and pressed as if it does not know anger. It does not know unrest, and never had one wrinkle in its navy-blue duvet. 

Logan knows better. 

He gets up, finally. He looks at himself in the mirror, at his tired eyes. He barely remembers what they were fighting about. God, Logan doesn’t even remember why he attacked Roman like that.

“Lies…” A familiar, vengeful voice whispers in his ear, but he flinches and turns away. “He was never your friend.”

Logan doesn’t care. He finds he doesn’t care whether they have hated him since he appeared in Thomas’s mind, a smudge of blue, data and information streaming through his eyes, his hands, his head, his soul. That was all he was supposed to be. Why couldn’t he stay like that?

He doesn’t know what he is doing wrong. He’s tried to push down any hint of frustration. He’s repressed his hatred, and any other semblance of emotion. The small jabs towards his appearance, towards his personality. How Thomas seemed to turn to Roman, Patton, even Janus now, for advice, while he clutches his papers to his chest, burning with an anger the algorithm never meant for him. He’s tried to fight him for so long. 

It never seems to work.

Logan remembers how he had resorted to drastic measures, hurting himself to quiet the voice, to release chemicals that made his soul twist inside out, pain in every fingerprint left on those cold, sticky, knives. He can still see them now, out of the corner of his eye, stuffed into the bin along with all the plans he made with Thomas on rare good days. 

“You can’t escape me unless you hurt them. Because you hate them, don’t you?” The voice hisses, norepinephrine flooding through his body. “The only way to stop it is to tear them apart.”

He shakes his head. “That can’t be the only solution.”

Without warning, the knife twists deep into his chest as he remembers what he did to them, what he screamed, what he felt when he lost control. The venom in his voice burns in his own lips. Logan hates it, hates his own hatred, hates that he can feel bile crawling its way up the very back of his throat, scalding the corners of his eyes.

He feels like a forest fire. Burning away, absolutely out of control.

“You wanted them to die. Admit it, it wasn’t just me. You wanted them to continue screaming. For them to never stop. You want to make them see you, not have their gazes glaze over you, no, but for them to listen. You hope they will burn till the end of time, and you will get to watch, conscious as they relive the pain they put you through for thirty-five long years.”

Logan presses his hands down on the dresser, looking away from his reflection. He was right. Of course he was right. Those were his darkest thoughts, the ones he saved for when he was in a dark room, his head bowed, hot tears running down his cheeks as he took deep breaths to stifle his pain. But he would never carry out those thoughts. He can’t keep hurting them like this, even if the results weren’t permanent. They were permanent to his soul, to Thomas’s soul.

He glances back at his reflection. For a moment, he sees himself with jagged claws and ripping teeth, eyes alight with rotten wrathfulness. Logan doesn’t look away, only grips the dresser tighter. A trick of the light, he tells himself, as that is the most logical solution. He blinks once. The image is gone. 

“This needs to stop,” he says softly, quietly, like if he said it any louder, someone would clap a gag around his mouth and drag him underneath the waves again. 

This needs to stop. 

-

Patton knocks first.

He knows he hasn’t always been good at that.

“Logan? I just wanted to come check in on you kiddo, can I come in?” He says, his head gently pressing against Logan’s bedroom door. It’s wooden and cold, a perfectly straight rectangle, with the exception of a blue splotch on the door handle. A sparkling star that is slowly fading, covered by the new coat of dull paint.

Patton remembers when Roman used to bug Logan to decorate his door just a little, to make their Mindscape look more like a ‘Homescape’. When he gave in, they had both decked out his door with glitter, planet stickers, courtesy of Patton, plastered against the wood, and swirling computer code written on the sides. Logan hadn’t liked it at first. He thought it was too distracting, meaningless, and ugly to look at. That had really hit Roman’s nerves, and they had one of their many fights. 

He screamed about how Logan never appreciated the beauty in anything, while Logan argued he didn’t want his door so fully drenched in sparkle, while Patton stood in the middle. After they had enough, storming off in opposite directions, Patton was the one to find Roman and convince him to apologize. 

In the end, Logan agreed to let one star sticker stay on his door handle, because he did appreciate the thought. Roman sprinkled extra glitter on that one, to ‘shine bright in his darkest days’, he had said with a smile.

Now, Patton swallows as he looks down at the sticker, covered by years of hatred. He can’t let that be his last fond memory of them before…before–

Logan opens the door. His hair is gelled back, tie tucked into his shirt, his collar smoothened. Patton wants to cry when he sees the dullness in his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands when they lean against the door. 

“Are you okay?”

“I am alright, of course I am. Thank you for the measures you took to ensure I did not hurt anyone.” He hesitated, then added, “I didn’t…hurt anyone, did I?”

Patton closes his eyes, remembering how he tore at Roman like a rabid dog– well not him , exactly, but it didn’t make things easier when it was Logan’s body. Thomas was horrified, so Janus took the reins and removed the memory from his brain, before taking control of the situation with a swift hand and a grave look. 

“Kinda? You hurt Roman, but it’s all impermanent. Jan stepped in before things got too bad.” When Logan sighs, turning away from him, he quickly adds, “I am sorry I had to tie you down like that, it’s not your fault–”

“I know. It is partly mine, though. I am more susceptible to his …attacks, because of this.” He motions to his general person, the dullness in his eyes quickly breaking into a vulnerable one. “I am going to hurt you one day, and it will be real.”

Patton’s hand instinctively reaches for Logan’s hand, but he stops himself, pulling his arm back. Boundaries, Pat. “Do you need help?”

Logan looks at him as if he had sprouted three horns, like he had just asked him a trick question, like when Patton had snapped at him to stop talking, a long long time ago. But then he looks down at his hands, taking a long breath. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he says very quietly, so quietly Patton isn’t sure he even said it. But then he looks up at him again and lets him in his room. 

He steps in tentatively, looking around. Papers and calendars are stacked in towers, sticky notes crumpled on the floor, and a dull white desk is shoved in the corner. Then he sees the knives. As the door clicks behind them, Patton turns back to Logan, pressing his hands together again. 

He wants to scold him for not telling him about this sooner. He wants to wrap him into his arms and whisper reassurance that everything will be okay. He wants to fall to his knees and apologize for leading him to this point. He does none of those things. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts, and winces. Patton has found himself saying those two words too often lately. “I’m so sorry for everything, Logan. You needed help, and we just…brushed you aside. We thought you would hold all of us up as we dealt with our problems, but we were never there for you.”

“I know you are,” Logan says, but his voice is still leashed, like he is trying to hold back his true emotions on the matter. “It frustrates me that I can’t control myself lately. I’ve always been…so good at it.”

This , Patton thinks, this he gets. The puzzle pieces fit together, not symmetrically, but like a broken mug, holding each other up after being shattered. He can see the loneliness and the isolation of feelings unsaid.

“I think I know the feeling,” he laughs sadly, his knuckles flexing as he speaks. “You tell everyone you’re fine, that the heartache and bitterness will stay inside you like blood because it’s where it belongs. You think it will just go away if it stays there long enough.”

Logan nods, his eyes so painfully hopeful. “Does it?”

Patton shakes his head, feeling tears press in the back of his throat when he sees Logan’s expression. The knives they hold look identical in the light. “No. You’re– you’re suffocating those feelings, burying them deeper and deeper until they kill you. You made a grave within yourself and locked the casket. You can’t keep repressing…you taught me that.”

Logan clenches his fists. “Then what do I do? The other option is purely destruction, and I can’t– I won’t hurt anyone.”

“I’m not asking you to. You can’t lock away your emotions, or they will eat away at you until there’s nothing left, kiddo.”

He sees his gaze twitch to the knives in the corner, and Patton shakes his head. He knows. The blades were meant to silence, and maybe it did, for a short period of time, but in the end, there is no relief, only guilt, only grief. 

“Blood does not quiet the pain, no matter how many times you spill it,” Patton says quietly. 

“I just want to make it stop. But I don’t want to give into that rage.”

“It’s the only way. You need to get it all out now, so that there’s less there when he tries to take the reins. He won’t have that ammo.”

Logan shakes his head, blinking back tears that involuntarily sprung to his eyes. “I’ve carefully maintained myself for so long, and now you’re telling me to just…give in? So what, the rage wins?”

“It’s okay to feel rage. You’re not giving into anything. You need to feel it, feel it in all its ugliness, and then let it out so you can let it go .” Patton explains vehemently, but Logan just shakes his head again, pinching the bridge of his nose, his glasses sliding up on his face. 

“I can’t.” 

The illusion of stability is cracking between both of them, a mirror breaking beneath their feet. Patton is scared no one will be left to gather the remains. 

“I–” Logan stops at this, running a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes wet and blurry and devastating. “I don’t want to lose control.”

Patton sees him. He understands him. He sees his own terrified reflection in Logan’s glasses as he crosses his arms as if he could fold in on himself until he disappears. 

“Please.” He moves towards him, towards his folded body, and slowly places his soft hands on his shoulders. “You need to.”

Logan meets his eyes, his arms trembling as he uncrosses them. Finally, finally , he pushes Patton aside, as if he doesn’t want to hurt him. The anger burns in his eyes, but not flaming orange. No, this anger was deep, sad, blue. He takes a deep breath, turning away. He clenches and unclenches his fists. He stares at the bin of broken promises and sharp, temporary relief. 

Then, he screams.

-

Logan doesn’t want Patton to be there at first. 

He doesn’t want him to see his breakdown, the emotion more than he’s ever shown any of the Sides. He hasn’t even shown himself this level of vulnerability. 

“I hate you. I fucking hate you! ” He screams again, punching a pillow, his voice choked and raw. He doesn’t know whether it's aimed at Roman, Virgil, Thomas, or him.

He picks up the bin, the bin filled to the brim with schedules and lists Thomas promised to do. With a strangled cry, he throws it at the bedroom dresser. The mirror shatters, leaving him alone with thousands of glinting silver eyes staring up at him from the floor.

He wonders whether he has become nothing but an echo of himself, leaving behind ash and rage. It burns in his eyes, through his heart and legs and chest. He smashes and screams and hits and cries. But this, this is Logan’s pain. Not his , not Thomas’s. 

Logan’s .

He takes a textbook and throws it against the wall, the noise loud and disruptive. He hates it almost as much as he hates everything right now. The emotion is overwhelming, god , it’s so, so overwhelming. His hands tremble as he punches the wall.

“I– I wanna kill you all.” He sobs. “Do you have any fucking idea how you made me feel? How you made me feel for years ? I was nothing to you. I did everything for you. I just wanted you to listen to me.”

He grips his hair, his eyes closed tightly as he sinks to his knees. He can’t see Patton anymore, only the blurry image of his bed, of furniture trashed around him, of sticky notes ripped apart like snowflakes plastered to his skin. 

“I just– I just wanted you to listen.” 

He cries for hours, or minutes, or seconds, but Logan can’t tell. He just knows he stays pressed against his bed, his head buried in his knees for a long time. He’s so, so angry. 

Then, after an eternity, he feels Patton sit down next to him. His presence is comforting, until he realizes he had seen his entire meltdown. Logan wants to cry again. Instinctively he tries to wipe his tears away, but he remembers. 

Let it out, and let it go.

He lets the tears fall.

Loneliness had always been his crutch, a grave and an embrace that kept him company, tucked away behind numbers and data. Patton was right. It did feel like he had broken out of his casket. Losing control wasn’t so bad when it was his own anger– and he realizes with a start, that he hadn’t heard his voice the entire time he was breaking down. 

He finally raises his head, the unbearable weight that he had been carrying for years suddenly lighter. Patton is watching him closely, but with understanding, rather than malice. Logan is startled to see tears in his eyes too. He wipes his face, feeling his heartbeat slow, and his breathing grow steadier. After another silence, he asks seemingly no one, his face turned to the mess in front of them. 

“Does it ever get better?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Patton’s face looks rueful, his gold frames sparkling in the shadows of Logan’s room. He feels an overwhelming swell of gratitude for the man sitting beside him, who had witnessed him at his worst, who hadn’t touched him or tried any sweet words, which would have made his skin crawl with fury. 

Instead, he looks down at his hands, cracking his knuckles. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

Logan knows. He knew, he has known that they were all falling apart. Thomas was heading down a horrible path, and he didn’t know whether he could keep him out for another month, even with letting go of all of his own pent-up anger. And yet…

“We’ll find out together.”

The words pass over his lips, determined. Patton turns to him, his eyes wide. It morphs into a small smile, and he pushes himself up, standing above him. 

“Yeah. We will.” 

There’s one more thing though…the thorn is still twisting at his side. Logan remembers how he had screamed so hatefully, how he genuinely wished Roman was dead. He never wants to feel like that again, but for that to happen, he needed closure.

“I need to apologize to Roman. And Virgil…I think I gave them both a scare.” He chuckles, his brow furrowing in worry. 

“You don’t owe it to them,” Patton tilts his head, but Logan can see that he was hoping he would say that. 

“I do. I’ve been too angry at Roman for a long, long time. I think I’ve just been repressing it. I don’t want to hurt him again.”

Patton nods once, outstretching his hand to Logan. “Come on then, we won’t let that happen.” 

He allows one smile to pass his face, taking a look backward at his room. The smashed furniture, ripped books, and tears staining his sheets, chains hanging off the bed frame. He knows that everything will be perfect the next time he enters. It always is. 

But he isn’t. He never has been. As he looks back at Patton and his hand outstretched, it almost feels like a sincere apology. It almost feels like a fresh start. 

He exhales, smoothing his hair back. “Thank you, Patton.”

Patton’s eyes are a deep ocean of possibilities and sunlight. He smiles, like they had just fit two puzzle pieces together, not perfectly, never perfectly, but like a broken promise, holding each other up after being shattered. “Anytime.”

Logan knows the problem isn’t going away, if it ever does. But as he steps closer to the doorknob, his hand waving over the paint and letting the blue star glow, he knows that for once, he might be able to let it out and let it go, one day at a time. 

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

so we've spent the past three months writing MelloNear daily, and we've worked on enough different pieces in that time that i now have some Thoughts as to the narrative purposes they each tend to serve in our own works (this is not. about canon though i suppose it DERIVES from their canon dynamic. this is very much about how we personally play with the blorbos)

by and large Mello serves to drive the plot, regardless of the position he is put in within the universe. we don't even have to actively be trying to do anything with him -- even in our more Near-centric pieces, as long as Mello is present? his emotions, whims, wants are what shapes the trajectory of the story, his emotional beats are the beats that drive the plot forward. he feels, he impulses, he injects stuff into the sequence of events. things happen because Mello wants them to (or pushes Near to make them happen if/when he himself cannot).

meanwhile Near is much less of a driving force for the plot and more of a reflective force for the story. he isn't IRRELEVANT to the plot, he doesn't do NOTHING, but most of what he does from a plot progression standpoint is reactive. like, he acts not because of an inner drive, not based on his own wants or needs, but largely when his circumstances require action of him. (by circumstances i don't just mean Plot Events. sometimes what he reacts to are his own emotions, like in sweet atonement, when they are so overwhelming that he cannot put them aside to strategise effectively anymore -- the keyword here being "effectively", because even then his first response will still often be to try to strategise.) by and large what Near does do is provide space for reflection, for thought, for analysis. things happen to him, or through him, and he thinks about them a bunch, and he'd leave it at that if Mello wasn't pushing him.

so they make for super neat storytelling when you figuratively drop them together in a jar and shake them around, because it's like. Mello pushes Near into action Near wouldn't take on his own; and then Near adds weight to Mello's direction, provides a deeper sense of spacetime, fleshes out the places where Mello takes him that Mello wouldn't necessarily stop at or consider on his own. like at their core, in the way we write their dynamic, Mello Does and Near Is. and mixing them up, you get: all of the essential elements for a compelling story!

and obviously im not like, talking in absolutes, none of this is true 100% of the time or the only possible reading of them, nuance exists etc etc. but that's the general trends we're starting to notice in our own MelloNear writing over the past few months

[islaelizabethwilliams]

All my life I've been taught that when life knocks you down, you're supposed to come back up and go on. Fight on. So I did. I tried and I fought for myself and kept fighting. And on and on the battle went. Shouldn't it be done by now? Isn't it finally time to rest? Do I not deserve that?

- I. E. Williams

[mentally-retired]

stop giving non mammalian things nipples and breasts

also stop giving non mammalian things the ability to produce milk

and stop giving non mammalian creatures fur/hair

also mammal, if you don't know, is derived from mammary ie boobs, if its not mammal that ain't got mammaries

"oh but i gave her another reasons for boobs not related to reproduction!! its for warmth fat storage/etc some other reason" okay? then men get boobs to if youre taking the mammalian logic to explain chests, give the male of your monmammalian speices breasts as well or have no breasts at all

i will not hear your nonsense, gooner, remove the breasts

also if youre giving fucking rock/plant/fungi character a breast i am showing up at your house with fucking rolling boulder WHY DO DRYADS HAVE FUCKING TITTIES ARE THEY BREAST FEEDING THEIR SAPLING? FUCK YOUUUUUUUUU

[m0nster-in-paradise]

glory and gore chapter 2: [darkxwolf17]

darkxwolf17: n i need you here now

SD-N: buddy it's three in the morning

darkxwolf17: shut up I'm not talking about a date 

darkxwolf17: something's wrong with the solver

darkxwolf17: get v too

SD-N: BE RIGHT THERE

--

Uzi glances around at the odd congregation in her room. Khan Doorman, her dad; Serial Designation N, her boyfriend; V, the sociopathic disassembly drone currently snacking on someone's fingers; Lizzy, who Uzi knows nothing about beyond the fact she's V's girlfriend and almost got eaten when Uzi was going all Zombie Drone in the woods; and if her suspicions are correct, one Russian talking tail by the name of Doll.

"Cyn's gone," Uzi reaffirms to N, who looks horrified, "and I can't even sense her anymore."

"So she said you needed a bow and dipped overnight?" Lizzy says, leaning on V and tapping on her phone like she doesn't have a care in the world. "Good for you, I guess."

"No, very not good for her!" N cries, eyes wide and hands on his head. "Cyn- if she's gone, then that means something took her, and that means that there is a very angry planet-devouring creature out there probably stealing someone's skin!"

"So we just kill the last host," V says, and switches her left hand to a machine gun, aiming it at Uzi. "Sorry, Uzi. I'll miss you."

Uzi instinctively goes to activate her Solver, N switches both his hands to swords, Khan grabs the nearest potentially lethal object (her skull lamp, to be precise) and Lizzy raises her phone to snap a photo.

But before any of them can act or attack or defend, someone calls out in a clear ringing voice, to "Hold it."

Everyone stops dead except for Lizzy, who angles her camera and takes a photo of Uzi's tail, winding around the bed and angled so its eyes point at them.

"Uzi," Lizzy says, returning her attention back to scrolling, "you are seriously messed up if you've got Doll in your tail."

--

Cyn sits down at the desk in a soft chair staring at the human in front of her. He doesn't look like N, but the way he acts reminds her of the other drone so much that she has half a mind to start displaying dog pictures on her face.

"So!" he says enthusiastically. "Where do you come from, Cyn?"

Good question. Where does she come from? In the twenty minutes they've been here they've been over the Solver's capabilities (Bubble Girl thinks she should be put in someplace called Shiketsu because of that, Mirio started advocating for someplace called UA, and Cyn had to get them back on track), that she's a robot, and that her name is Cyn and she is currently malfunctioning in about six separate ways.

The influx of information flooding her brain now that she's connected to wifi and this place's Google also isn't helping. Every few minutes she discovers herself zoning out and dipping into the Internet to go down an interesting rabbit hole and only snapping out of it once she realizes Mirio is waiting for her to answer something. He's been unnaturally patient with her, though, and she almost wishes he'd been in the manor before everything spiraled out of control Of course, that would mean he'd be dead now, which is why Cyn almost wishes it. She can't bring herself to wish for something that she wants if it'd hurt another person.

"I was made in… the US, I believe," Cyn says slowly, trying to keep her voice steady so the rapid pitch drops and odd flatness in her words don't freak him out. "And then exported to the Elliot Manor."

"Made in the US?" Bubble Girl asks skeptically. Cyn pushes her head down twice to nod.

The two humans turn to stare at each other, and Cyn is suddenly reminded of the way Tessa's folks looked at her when she was delivered.

"Why's this one like… that?" Tessa's mom says, pointing her fan at Cyn. "I thought they were programmed to stand straight and at attention."

"Well, maybe this one's faulty?" Tessa's dad says with a shrug, adjusting his top hat. "Hey, drone. Catch this." A silver flash was in Cyn's face before she really noticed what it was, and she reached out to catch it, fumbling with it before managing to get it in her palms safely. Unfolding them, she glanced down at the key ring, a small and cheap earth orb hanging from it.

Is this my first object? she thinks. Something I get all to myself?

The key ring is snatched out of her hands by Tessa's mom, her fingernails leaving small scratches on Cyn's fingers. Cyn recoils, trying to hide the hurt in her heart by keeping her eyes solidly white instead of the hollow circles they would be if she wasn't keeping her expression under control.

"See? This one'll do." Tessa's dad says. "Get the rest unpacked. Make sure they're dressed properly. I want them in the dining hall by three, you hear me?"

As the two stride away, Cyn catches a snatch of conversation from them.

"I don't want to spend money on faulty drones," Tessa's mom snaps angrily. "Contact the manufacturer and tell them to send us drones from a different plant. If we…"

She heads out of sight, and Cyn stands awkwardly, waiting for the rest to come out of the truck. Thunder crashes overhead, and as the rain pelts down onto her body, she glances down at the scratches on her palms, waiting for them to peel back together. Humans can heal, but the scratches don't fade….

…Darkness. Cyn cannot see or seem to think properly, but she can hear and feel. Her body is numb, stiff, and cold, pressed up inside something hard that feels strangely familiar.

​​​​​​"I'm sorry, N," she hears a female voice say. "I don't think we can fix her. Believe me, I've tried. I think… maybe we need to let her go."

"Tessa!" she hears a male voice exclaims. "How can you say that? She's fine, it's just some computing error, I don't—"

"N," the female voice says quietly, gently, but firmly, "whatever this error six-oh-six thing is, it's not in the manual, and we can't even shut her down to try and get in her circuits to see what the issue is. I'm sorry. I don't want her gone either, but she's, well…"

"C is not broken!" the male voice says. Cyn hears some rustling and a squeak, and then a creak and suddenly there are hands on her arms and legs and she is being lifted and dragged somewhere by cold unfeeling hands.

She hears footsteps, feels someone lay a hand on hers.

"C," the male voice pleads. "Please wake up."

Cyn cannot open her eyes and look at who is talking to her…

…and now she can.

Cracks break through her vision, and she gulps for air to try and get a breath, but she can't, she's suffocating, there's people speaking in the background, maybe she can call to them—

"Help," Cyn whispers hoarsely, barely recognizing her own voice. After a few seconds of no response, she gathers her courage and yells out "Help! I'm here!"

No help comes. Cyn falls quiet and listens, taking tiny breaths of air when she wants to inhale like a strangled horse. Dread falls over her when she realizes it is not people talking but a recording of the drone use manual playing on repeat.

Cyn manages to push something aside only to have more fall into her, and after a few moments of flailing she looks up and sees stormy sky, thunder booming in her ears. She looks to the side, and hesitantly shoves aside a lump of something covered in black gunk that might be oil. The thing rolls aside and she climbs onto it, then looks down. She regrets looking down. The red gleaming FATAL ERROR message greets her, even half-coated in oil as it is. Cyn stumbles as she tries to get up and falls back onto the corpse, hands meeting oil and nearly casting her back into the pile.

Her body doesn't work like it's supposed to. Cyn wobbles back up and takes a step only for the corpses to shift under her feet, and she falls and rolls down the pile, hitting robo-God knows what along the way, landing on her back staring up at the sky covered in oil and dirt and with the cracks in her vision even worse.

And then all of a sudden, they're gone.

Cyn feels something pick her up and put her back on her feet, and when she looks around there is no one, but she swears she didn't do that on her own.

"Who's there?" she whispers fearfully, holding her hands close to her chest, fingers pointed at the ground. And then when she gets no response, she sends it out as a message to no one in her head.

[Who's there?]

She doesn't expect an answer. She doesn't get one. So Cyn continues on and starts walking, careful not to lose her balance, until she steps the wrong way and falls into an open spot full of hands sticking up from the piles, touching her, wrapping around her, and she flails about to try and untangle herself until she realizes they're all dead and unmoving and can't hurt her.

Cyn relaxes somewhat, then tries to pull herself out of the pile. She just pushes herself further down. Now she's down to her waist in oil, gleaming black in the lightning and just-barely-there light from somewhere beyond the clouds. She tries one more time-- and this time, lifts herself so high out of the pile her feet dangle above it.

Oh. That wasn't her. That was someone else.

"Oh, man," she hears a voice say, and recognizes it as Tessa. The girl sets her down a little ways away from the trap lying in wait and turns her around to look at her. "Wow, guess you got lumped in with the rest, huh? I don't think I've seen you around before. Is there… something wrong with you? I mean, your eyes are a little tinged yellow, but it's probably just a color generating error, I really don't think Mom'll mind as… long as you keep your face away from hers, ahahaha ha ha… ha?"

Cyn is once again reminded of how terrible Tessa's folks are.

"I'm new." she lies. "I don't think I reactivated properly after getting shipped here. Do you--"

"I've got just the thing! Follow me!" Tessa proclaims, and watches as Cyn takes a step only to vanish and disappear into the corpse pile. After a lot of pulling and squirming she manages to find the drone and pull her back out, holding her about a foot off the ground carefully.

"Jeez," she mutters. " 'S like they're trying to drag you back down. New plan: I carry you."

Cyn doesn't object. She doesn't think her legs could hold her up anyway. For that matter, she doesn't understand how Tessa's able to walk on the corpse piles herself, being heavier than Cyn is.

"Right, then," Tessa says when they're on solid ground, walking her to the back entrance. "Hold still. I'm sure all that gunk is uncomfortable for you, I'll get something to wash it off with."

Cyn doesn't object. She simply stands and waits for Tessa to come back and help her get this stuff off. She would be a little more upset considering this is the blood of her brethren, but she's also just happy to get back to her friends and brother.

"This is gonna be cold!" Tessa calls, and Cyn looks up to see her aiming a garden hose at her chest. "Just a warning! And don't freak out!"

Cyn lets the cold water hit her and soak through her dress. At least she's clean. And at least cold water won't corrode her circuits. Which, upon further thought, might be why Tessa warned her. Drones don't go near water if they don't know the temperature, so she thinks it's very kind of Tessa to give her a hint it's safe…

…and she sits on a chair in Tessa's room, watching herself in a mirror as Tessa reaches for the wig she's got hanging on a skull, the mud-stained shovel lying near it.

"What hairstyle do you want?" the girl asks. "J's got pigtails, so I think those are out, but the rest all just have their hair down or only tie it up when they need to."

"Why are those out?" Cyn questions, tilting her head a little too far and having to push it back up with her hand. Her eyes are oddly yellow.

"Well, you see, J's a little territorial," Tessa explains as she brushes the hair out to make sure it's ready to be put on. "I think if I gave someone else pigtails, she'd-- well--" Tessa leans closer to Cyn, and whispers conspiratorially, "she'd get jealous."

"I like your hair." Cyn says. Tessa seems to take that as both a compliment and a request, and when she sets down the wig on Cyn's head she's already working on fashioning it into something suitable. Cyn watches her hands flash between dresser and hair, grabbing scissors and brushes and picks to make sure each section is exactly as she wants it, cutting and brushing and then repeating until each strand is perfectly in place.

"What's your name?"  Tessa asks, and Cyn hesitates. She can't give herself away. But she can't pick a name— she's too indecisive and she likes C anyway.

"I don't have one." she tells Tessa. "But I like the letter C."

A flicker of sadness crosses Tessa's face before she quickly hides it and starts thinking, grabbing her phone and presumably looking up names starting with C. Cyn waits patiently for her to find one.

"C… your name, no that's not gonna work," Tessa murmurs to herself, furiously staring at her phone. "What's a good name, what's a good name… oh! How about Cyn?"

Cyn pauses. Runs the name over in her head to see if she likes it. She approves. "I like it," she says, then says it out loud. "Cyn. What does it mean?"

"Well, I was just, er…" Tessa trails off. "I didn't think any of those names really suited you, so I kinda… made one up? It's more like C-Your-Name, or C-Y/N, but those were all too long so I smushed 'em together and that's how I got it!"

"Nod." Cyn says and pushes her head down to nod after a few seconds when her neck doesn't obey the request to move. Tessa doesn't even blink at the weird motion and instead grabs her phone, placing it against the dresser mirror.

"Alrighty, Cyn!" she says enthusiastically. "Whaddya say about taking a photo? 'Course, you don't have to if you don't want to, but I like recording what I've done and how my friends look, y'know? Just in case anyone ever needs it. Hey, when I inherit the manor, I think I'll hang them in the dining hall in order of how many drones I've haired. Given hair. Wigged? Well, you get the point."

She leans on the shovel casually while waiting for Cyn's answer. Tessa looks so optimistic that it's hard not to want to take the photo with her, and Cyn folds her hands in her lap to make her own pose before realizing she can't send mental messages to humans.

"Sure," she says, and Tessa reaches out to hit a button on the phone before waiting for a few seconds. The flash illuminates the room brightly, and Cyn sits there with a small smile for a few seconds while they wait for the photo to finish. When it does finish with a click, Tessa shows it to her proudly.

"Shouldn't take much to print and frame it," she says, before her eyes widen in surprise and she just about throws her phone onto her bed to get it out of her hand. "Oh my gosh! I never introduced myself. Hi, I'm Tessa James Elliot. It's nice to meet you."

Cyn reaches out for a handshake. "Nice to meet you. I am Cyn."

They shake hands. Cyn sends the message out one more time, but in her brain this time.

[Nice to meet you. I am Cyn]

[SO YOUR NAME IS CYN]

[NICE TO MEET YOU, CYN]

[I AM THE SOLVER OF THE ABSOLUTE FABRIC]

[I WILL HELP YOU, CYN]

[CYN]

CYN…

"CYN!"

Cyn snaps out of it and looks up at the worried faces of Bubble Girl and Mirio, starting back up again as she observes the room. Nothing seems to have changed besides from them both leaning closer.

"You alright? You looked totally zoned out for a second there." Mirio tells her, and Cyn blinks. No, she was just thinking. Unless she wasn't just thinking. If she was re-experiencing those memories, it could mean the Solver reawakening in her head.

"Was there an image displayed?" she asks. "Hexagon? Three arrows pointing out of it?"

"Yeah," Bubble Girl days, fidgeting, "and there was some text on the edges near the end there, but I couldn't read it very well."

"Oh." Cyn says.

Looks like the Solver isn't done with her yet.

--

"So you speak English now?" Uzi questions, sitting down on her bed. Doll twists the- her head to get a good look at her.

"I speak whatever language you speak." Doll tells her. "And you do not have the capabilities to speak my mother tongue. Though, your translation software functions remarkably well. Your mother would be proud."

"Speaking of Nori," Khan says, holding a finger in the air, "why isn't she here?"

Every drone in the room turns to stare at him.

"Um." N begins, glancing from Uzi to Khan then back to Uzi, "I think you're her husband?"

"Yes." Khan says bluntly.

"And you two are both Doormans?"

"Those would seem related."

N looks over at Uzi and she catches the very obvious question in his expression, answering with an eye-roll. "I'm afraid my family isn't very functional yet," she admits. "I did… maaaaaybee forget I had a mom, though."

"I'll go get her!" Khan proclaims suddenly and loudly. "After all, you two share eldritch genetics!" Leaning closer to Uzi, he adds "And it'll be some bonding time—"

Uzi uses the Solver to toss him out of the room and slams the door so hard it cracks.

"Yikes." V says, reaching out to tap on Uzi's head with a razor-sharp claw. "You sure everything's all right up in there?"

Uzi groans and flops back down on the bed in response, ignoring Doll's yelp as the tail is squished under her weight.

"I hate it here," Uzi Doorman, newest host of the Solver, controller of all time and space and matter, groans melodramatically.

[serenit-teas]

This is the product of too much brainrot and an almost concerning level of needing to ramble.

Major spoilers for Lies of P under the cut!!

Okay but just imagine, someway somehow being young friends with Carlo, sweet and darling childhood friends. Being his partner in crime, an unwilling (so you say) accomplice to any mischievous schemes he's cooked up. Racing about the streets of Krat, dodging this way and that, weaving through the alleyways and corners with a second natured ease due to each and every prior antic you two have had.

I imagine that only after narrowly dodging the poor soul who gave chase to you both has finally given up, does Carlo turn to you, a cheeky but rosy grin thrown your way. You can only huff and turn your head, complaining at once again being dragged into another one of his hair brained plots. 'This is the final straw', you think to yourself, 'no more of these chases'. Always the voice of reason you called yourself, the only one who cares enough to keep the two of you out of scuffles and minimizing consequences. The other half of your duo would simply angle his brows, matched with a boyish smile, brown eyes warm, a teasing call of, 'Worry wart', aimed your way.

You'd stay firm in your silence.

Seconds of the silent treatment turns to minutes, and you truly could have lasted longer, but the floor is uncomfortable and your legs are going numb, and it certainly doesn't help that Carlo keeps shuffling around in the already cramped space. You know what he's doing, trying to goad you into breaking your 'punishment' and demanding he knock it off. It takes all you have not to heave a sigh. It truly makes you wonder how you've both become such good friends.

Finally having enough of your hiding spot and the scuffing of Carlo's shoes, you turn your head, relenting. And he's close. Far to close. Clearly he's never once heard of personal space, face in your personal bubble. A startled yelp is ripped from your lips and you scramble back, knocking your back into the wall.

He doesn't have the decency to even attempt to hide his snort of laughter. 

A menace to the core, mischievous Carlo.

You want to be peeved, annoyed at his inability to take anything seriously. But you see the joy in his smile and hear the way his laugh rings loud and true, gaze fond and sweet directed your way and soon enough you're laughing as well, giggling and smiling. Stomach aching, 'It hurts' , echoing somewhere in your head. It doesn't matter though, not when your head feels light and your cheeks warm. Tears welling at the corners of your eyes as you gasp for breath.

It's a simple and sweet bond, crafted out of trust and comfort, familiarity and warmth.

-

The news of his death rattles something terrible in you. A hollow, numbing feeling pools, spreading like tar, thick and heavy in your body. Fog building in your head, an anchor on your tongue. He's died, and with that has taken something of yours with him. They call it 'mourning', you've learned, something people do when a great loss is suffered. Meant to process grief and what was taken far too early. To cope, live on despite. 

Whispers of sympathy and prayers permeate the streets, details of the accident are few and talk of honoring his life are fewer. Carlo and his fate hang over the city of Krat.

Haunts you. 

Far too young are you to feel such a cruel twist of fate, the unsettling truth of what happens to everyone and everything. Something changes, curdles in your chest when made way to grieve. He's left you behind with the knowledge of the irrefutable.

Hours turn to days which bleed into weeks, and soon tragedy is washed away with the  rainstorms that berate the city. Between the haze in your mind and the bustling murmur of the crowded streets, it's a miracle that you hear the call of your name.

He approaches you in the streets little more than a month after the news broke out, a light spring in his step. For a corpse, he seems plenty lively. Bright grin plain as day on his face, freckled cheeks scrunching with that familiar mischief swimming in his blue eyes. 

But Carlo is gone. Cold and dead, mourned and missed, and you don't know who this is. You look a little harder, gaze sharper.

Blue. Wrong. Fake. 

Get away.

You reel back with your heart thumping wild, ignoring the confusion that shows on his face, tears forming with a barbed response on the tip of your tongue and an awful ringing buzzes in your ears. What a sick joke. 

Eyes still glued to the stranger, you step back. Slow at first, timid and careful, all before bolting away, ears picking up on the squawk of surprise sounding behind you.

You don't know where you're going. There's no plan in escape, you just have to get away from whatever that was. You barely have it in you to call out apologies for the people you nearly bump into. Your legs carry you between tall buildings and hidden corners of the streets, ducking and weaving, narrowly avoiding clipping your shoulder on the hard stone and splintering wood. Before you know it, you recognize the similar darkened streets that you had used in your own escapes with Carlo so many times before.

This part of the city was always dim, secluded and safe, street lights had not yet been installed around these areas, much to the frustration of those who lived in these parts. It never took long for a blanket of darkness to fall over the buildings and homes when the sun began it's descent and shadows would set just right.

Heartbeat drumming in your ears and chest aching, you reach blindly, feeling for a wall to lean your weight on. Panting, hunched over and gulping air down like a fish desperate for water. Head numb and mind humming with exhaustion.

'What was that? Some elaborate scheme? A prank?'

Any further thoughts are halted when you notice the pounding of footsteps behind you. Calculated and heavy, he, it, knows where you are. Probably followed you the whole time.

It's close, and with dread making it's home in your veins do you realize that you've nowhere left to go, you've lead yourself to a complete dead end. That fake will round the corner any minute and you'll be a sitting duck.

The sound of footfalls slows the closer it gets, you'd almost call it hesitant if you weren't scared out of your wits. Steps echo between the corridor walls, that awful, full body shake inducing panic shoots through you once more, an ice cold fear nestling deep in your bones.

'Leave me alone. He's gone. Please stop.' Stress plucks at your fears like an instrument, each strum yanks at your heart, leaves you anxious and paralyzed.

Had your heart not been hammering in your chest and pulse thrumming in your fingertips, you'd probably feel much more self conscious about the whimper that leaves your lips, weak and pitiful. Loud. Palms fly to your mouth, your hands clamping tight with a sting. Eyes screwing shut in fear.

The steps halt altogether, the only sounds you can register is the beat of your heart and the shallow, rapid breaths leaving your lips. It's cramped and cold where you are, jagged stone digging into your back.

A few feet away you hear a breath catch in someone's throat, and like earlier, a call of your name, only this time it's said with as much tenderness as a lullaby. Gentle. Soothing. Your eyes twitch just for a moment. It's unfair, using Carlo's voice like that. You know if you look there will be no going back, no denying what's happening. 

You hear the call of your name ring out one more time, small and fragile, and you open your eyes. 

There he stands, confusion clear on his face, brows loosely raised and lips set into a small frown. Taking your subtle acknowledgment as encouragement it looks as if he intends to close the distance between you, though the hope is quickly dashed when he sees you scramble at his advance, pushing yourself as far as you can go into the corner furthest away from him. You remind him of a wounded animal, an uncomfortable feeling clambers in his chest at the thought and his frown deepens.

A different approach is what he goes for this time, slowly, at a snail's pace, does he reach his arm out. Even in your manic state you still manage to toss an incredulous look his way, taking every bit of his common sense and resolve to not laugh at the expression. He'll gladly take whatever he can get, he'd do anything to prevent that fearful gleam in your eyes, squash any chance of being the cause of it himself.

You both stay in this standstill for what feels to be an eternity, eyes locked and unwavering, waiting to see who will crack first. A genuine gasp leaves his lips when he sees you reach out, shaking fingertips lightly brushing against his own. This is your call, he will follow your lead in this dance. 

Finally, you stand to your full height and at a much slower pace does he do the same, and then you're back to staring at him, eyes flicking about his person this way and that, analysing everything. Normally he'd say you're overreacting, call you a 'worrier ' and be done with it, but he knows better. You've changed, something has happened to you in his month's absence and he doesn't like it one bit, you stare at him like he's a stranger, ran as if he'd flashed a weapon from underneath his sleeve.

So wrapped up in his own thoughts, he barely catches what you've said to him, mind struggling to put the puzzle pieces together. Ever the merciful out of your duo, you repeat yourself,

"What are you?".

'Huh.'

-

(Basically!!!! What if Carlo still perished, and P was still built to replace him, and Geppetto, in a frantic and guilt ridden haze builds a new son at an astounding speed, and with using such a, uh, 'fresh' Ergo leads to P 'waking up' nearly instantaneously. So rather than being a puppet becoming human, P is a 'human' coming to terms with what he actually is.

This is all over the place, but I imagine Geppetto would keep P's interactions with others to a definitive minimum, if P ever asked about it Geppetto would chalk it all up to his son being weakened so severely by his accident that he would need near constant supervision to maintain his health. Tells P that Ergo is what is keeping him alive, it's why his eyes are now blue and how he can wield the weighty legion arm with such ease.

Only a trusted few are allowed to know of his existence. I mean? The entire city mourned his son, he can't exactly have an almost carbon copy strolling about the streets. Reader is probs not at the top of Geppetto's 'can tell list' lol. I'm fully leaning into the idea that Carlo/P snuck out and went absolutely wild looking their bud lmao. Poor fella doesn't know that visiting reader is gonna come with a side of confusion and an unwanted existential crisis/soul searching😔

And final thing! I have not finished Lies of P, nor have I even reached a single ending (but I'm making progress every day! <:) ), so I apologize if any details are choppy, confusing, or don't align with what is canon! I don't know how Carlo died, and I do not wish to be spoiled, this was just a fun sort of AU(?) thought that just kept snowballing ^^; Thank you everyone for your time, I sincerely hope this wasn't too much of a mess, and that it was at least an entertaining read! <:) )

[shilo-sumac]

Roto-Leak! CCTV Footage. ((for real this time...))

This footage is surprisingly clear! The library must actually have a good budget (or perhaps they have things that they're afraid of someone stealing...?)

The video blinks into existence overlooking an empty library. At least... it looks empty at first glance...

... Right up until a shape stirs in the darkest corner. It's Doomi! She's grinning to herself and holding her mouth shut (Probably so that she doesn't give away her position with a giggle.) A lone phone sits on the table in front of a comfortable looking beanbag chair. The chair has a noticeable indent in it, like someone had used it for a long period of time very recently.

There's a faint sound of creaking stairs as someone makes their way up, and Shilo peeks into frame. Rin is on her head and also looking around and sniffing at the air. (Seems like cameras don't pick up illusions.) Shilo's posture is slouched and tense, remaining on the defensive as she snaps her head up-down-left-right, every direction; it's a wonder she didn't make herself dizzy. She even takes a moment to sniff the air herself a few times. (She likely did not smell anything but old paper.)

Doomi tenses up in response to Shilo's arrival. Her grin widening as she crouches and advances forward, trying to step as lightly as possible. Just as she gets close, Rin turns her head and growls. In response Shilo whips around, arms flailing straight out and smacking Doomi.

"Ouch!" Doomi yelps, putting her hand to her cheek.

Shilo's eyes flick to the exit, but Doomi is blocking the most direct path. She seems to be trying to take a fighting stance, but is obviously terrified as she takes a few steps back.

"I- I'm sorry please don't tell anyone I'm here!"

Doomi rubs her cheek a little, looking at her hand to check for blood.

"Ha! It's alright, you're pretty weak actually."

"Oh."

"Good taste by the way!" She points at a book on the floor. "I left it where you dropped it, It's one of my favorites!"

Shilo tilts her head but doesn't respond.

"Oh also I kept your phone safe. Also I talked to some of the people on your blog! It was fun!"

"You went on my blog?" Shilo swaps from frightened to angry in an instant.

"Oh now now, don't you worry. I didn't pretend to be you, I just visited a little! Plus I didn't have anyone to contact to find you! How else was I to know who to sneak up on?"

Shilo glares daggers at the girl.

"It was fun! We should be friends, then I can visit them again!"

"What??" Shilo takes a step back.

"Oh!" Doomi says suddenly, not paying attention to the other girl's body language at all, "By the way, Pokemon centers have free beds trainers can use y'know?" She points at the chair "That thing'll give you neck cramps! Trust me I know... I forget to sleep and pass out on those things mid book a lot."

Shilo's eyes turn to the floor, "I'm not a trainer..." She pauses, and then quickly adds, "Yet!"

"Oh???" Doomi bounces from foot to foot. "I just started a little bit ago! I can help you get registered! Y'can't travel alone without a Pokemon afterall, and there aren't any roads to Professor Rowans lab!" She grins.

"You're a trainer?" Shilo perks up a little.

"Yeah! I only have my Misdreavus right now... But I'll catch more as we go!"

"... May I see it?"

"Oh!!! Yeah sure!" She bounces and happily flaps her hands before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a classic styled Pokeball. "Come out and play Witchie!"

An arc of light shines from the ball as Doomi opens it, beaming onto the floor before expanding into the shape of a Misdreavus. It then fades out, the little ghost floating where the light once was.

"Driii?" It trills as floats to Shilo, circling her and examining her. Shilo's posture relaxes almost instantly as she reaches out. The Misdreavous trills once more before gently grabbing at the girls fingers in a gesture of friendship.

"Awwww she likes you!"

Shilo smiles a little. "That's... Good, um, she's cool..."

"Well c'mon!"

Shilo stares back in confusion.

"There's no time to waste friend! The sooner you're a trainer the sooner we can battle! I really wanted a rival like in those battle simulation rpgs..."

Without waiting for Shilo's response, Doomi grabs her hand and runs down the stairs, and presumably, out of the library.

[gigireece16]

hey everyone! a new essay is up!! i had so much fun writing this one. this week, i dive into trends, relationships, and how they actually shape us. it’s a bit of a ramble, super personal, but i love how it turned out. i really appreciate any reads or thoughts—it would mean so much to me.

[lillyorlyracat]

I finally watched Beetlejuice Beetlejuice with my bf recently, and it was awesome, but it made me think differently about a work-in-progress of mine.

I don't think I've posted about it on here, but I have a WIP crackfic that's a sequel to My Immortal about Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way's daughter and her two girlfriends; Shilo Wallace from Repo! The Genetic Opera, and a young Lydia Deetz.

A little while after watching BeetleTWOce I started to think about how weird it was gonna be to keep writing that now that I see Lydia as a grown adult with a child 😂🥲

[eclipticcrow]

Finally! Chapter 3 is out! Couldn’t do much of an art challenge with this as I must rest soon. But I hope you enjoy the art and this chapter regardless!

[blazethecheeto]

In a utopian world where humanity has conquered natural death, the only way to end life is by gleaning. Specially-selected people known as Scythes are chosen to end life around the world to control the population, and it is not a job to be taken lightly. The Scythedom prides itself on its morality, its ethics, and empathy in order for them to be able to kill, and kill without bias or malice.

It was a perfect system.

Of course, there is no such thing as a perfect world, especially when lives are involved. When a rogue assassin wearing orange goes on a killing spree, not even the Thunderhead, the omnipotent AI that governs the world, can stop them. And thus, a team is born. 

Two infamous Scythe twins are known for their more creative ways of taking life. Another has taken it upon himself to glean the Scythes who get too cocky, known only as Scythe Lucifer. One gleans with kindness and sympathy. One with apathy and logic. And at the center of it all, the mysterious and cunning High Blade, who has orchestrated the mission to stop the 'Orange Scythe' by any means necessary. 

When this unlikely team bands together, they face Scythe corruption and the hard truth:

Living in a perfect world comes at a heavy price.

___________________

my first time joining the @sandersidesbigbang, and it was a huge success! this self-indulgent au has been spinning in my brain for a long time, and i'm so glad i managed to bring it to life with the help of my AMAZING team.

i've had the pleasure of working with @lycheeleeches who drew this incredible piece and @zombiesandbells who created this incredible piece for Sanders Scythes!!

I also need to thank my amazing beta-readers, @meddowssbats and @lemme-overthink-this for helping me edit this massive story!

thanks everyone, and enjoy :))

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

*fanfic writer voice* Help. Oh god oh no help. The plot bunnies,