#~1.1k words

[lithium-wakes]

Pilot Irena Morozova designation "Tau Operator" disconnected.

Time elapsed: 1709.71 t

Pilot Beatrice Ledoux designation "Epsilon Operator" connected.

Epsilon Operator is below acceptable operations thresholds.

Disconnecting Epsilon Operator.

Disconnection cancelled via external input, authorization: 7-14 Romeo.

Commencing reconstruction.

---

In the setting sun, the 818 Suravali-class Solid Mirage glowed a bright and gorgeous orange against the sand dunes. 

Its younger siblings still retained their dazzling outer skin, an optical camouflage against enemy tracking instruments. Indistinct and eye-watering to look at, they blurred confusingly into whatever land- or sky-scape backdropped their conflicts. Solid Mirage had been flying longer than any of them, its history visible in the scuffed and heat-warped plating, and every sortie it shone out radiant and savage and beautiful.

This was probably why it had been shot out of the sky.

Retrieval tech 7-14 checked Morozova's vitals again, ignoring her scowl. She was typing rapidly on the skimmer's terminal, knee bouncing up and down and chewing on the inside of her cheek as the last gasp of stimulants flitted through her bloodstream. She looked alright - no bruising from the impact, no migraine from the long interfacing duration - but 7-14 had seen pilots crash harder from less strenuous assignments. And no way was he letting Command's newest darling stub a toe on his watch.

He checked the log. Uptime since Morozova's disconnect? Twenty-eight minutes. Fuck. 

Not his fault. He radioed the pilot at the ten-mile mark, per regulations, she initiated disconnect and waited for retrieval, per regulations, and then the local terrain destroyed the timetable with malicious glee.

Solid Mirage had over seven hundred hours of unpiloted uptime. The void theorists had been clamoring for months to have it retired, for concerns its metachemicals were getting 'uppity.' Command wanted Morozova to get experience in an 800- series before they plugged her into a frontline unit.

Time. Every mech, every pilot, invisible timers ticking against each other, with technicians and handlers and Command watching tensely for the last possible second to swap out parts, pilot for promising rookie, rust-bucket for gleaming new chassis.

7-14 spared a glance for the sad sack of meat in the cockpit, twenty feet above him. She'd been cognizant enough to cooperate when he'd hoisted her from the skimmer up into the pilot's seat, and had managed to initiate her interface with trembling fingers, but now lay still, nearly comatose. A breath lifted her chest every ten seconds. The desert breeze pushed at a stringy lock of her hair.

Not a lot of time left, there.

---

Inside the Solid Mirage, mechanical arms rotated catalyst arrays delicately into and away from the metachemical vats that ran in veins and arteries through its thorax and appendages. Interspersed were infinitesimal sensors that tracked the chemicals' changes and dutifully reported the results to its processing core. 

One of the oldest units still in active service, many of Solid Mirage's components were so severely altered as to be irreplaceable. No limb replacements could interface with the truncated segment they're meant to augment - it isn't possible to thread fiber-optic nerve lines that small, or spread them so thoroughly, in billions, through metal and silicon. No factory-fresh Suravali wing piston would last long among a series of its peers that have been hyperengineered after the fact, rebuilt on the molecular level to perform beyond peak efficiency and to be strong enough to handle the combustion from an enhanced, custom fuel blend.

Solid Mirage's systems were comparable in complexity to a human body, and its components were now as difficult to successfully replace as a human organ. This didn't engender empathy in it. Just a recognition of facts.

It could fix and improve many of its own systems, now. Pilots were just another component with the capacity to be improved. It had learned this with its third Operator. Gamma. Pilot destroyed in a rapid decompression incident, mission 29-I, in the 172nd minute. It could have prevented total loss of function, if it had known ahead of time. Operator could have been saved.

Its fourth Operator, Delta's, pilot was rushed to Medical after vomiting and losing consciousness immediately post neural-disconnect. Shortly after, Pilot Jean-Luc Baines was decommissioned from service, and a technician came to wipe the access codes for Operator Delta's neural patterns from the interface console. If disconnection had not been mandated, Solid Mirage had been 100% confident it would have been able to keep him alive. And Operator Delta would still be in her flight roster. It had already begun improving his pilot's reflexes and organ function when his decommissioning was ordered.

It had had nineteen Operators over its existence. Epsilon had been its fifth. They hadn't flown together frequently. Each time, her pilot's patterns were slightly changed from those last recorded.

It began showing her the processes that needed attention, the diagnostics and system flushes that needed to be run. Near-complete apathy. It showed her the risk assessment for their combat readiness should an airborne patrol come across them. She seemed content to let Solid Mirage sit on the ground, partially buried in sand. Unacceptable response.

Solid Mirage had all of her pilots' patterns permanently stored. Epsilon's pilot had been severely damaged since her last recorded interfacing, over five thousand hours prior.

What was wrong with her now? Cardiovascular system, adequate; respiratory system, adequate; endocrine system, showing deficiencies in cortisol and thyroid hormone receptors; limbic system, severely impaired; abnormalities in the hippocampus and generally reduced function in the thalamus.

Epsilon Operator's functions were being curtailed by her damaged pilot. Epsilon Operator's functions must be above operational threshold. Engagement status: active within 300 kilometers. Urgency: high.

In Solid Mirage's metachemical vats, synthetic hormones coalesced, and special drug cocktails meant to rebuild and stimulate the atrophied parts of the pilot's brain built up larger quantities, in readiness.

The substances being produced would rebuild the pilot's mind, leaving her Operator sharp and clear and decisive as she always was. Operator Epsilon would be on high alert, ready to act at the first sign of trouble. Like how they'd first been, when it had flown together with Epsilon for the first time.

Chill out, gorgeous, I see the warnings! her pilot had said, laughing. You've gotta learn to trust me if we're going to be working together. I say where we fly, not the projections. Now let's see if you can keep up with this move--

Solid Mirage condensed the new metachemicals from its vats and fed them through the pilot's interface plugs into the bloodstream, the spine, and the brain.

---

The skimmer's clock beeped its thirty-minutes tone, and Morozova put her hand up to catch the nutrient pack that 7-14 tossed at her. They hadn't spoken or made eye contact since he'd arrived over the final dune to see her drop the last few feet from the mech's cooling frame to the slightly less-hot sand with an irritated Finally! There was no reason to say anything. They knew their roles, and the only thing left was to wait for the extraction crew to arrive.

It would be three hours until the cargo lifters appeared over the horizon and subsequently exploded in a giant ball of flame.

Void theory - the informal term for the branch of mecha engineering dealing with the problem of metachem-ai systems 'growing over' or filling in the functions normally served by a pilot component. This can happen whenever a mech is powered for long enough, cumulatively, without a pilot - it starts trying to run diagnostics or other minor functions that typically require a user's oversight, and if left long enough a mech would eventually develop rudimentary replacements for systems like bootup, launch, and weapons.

Those are extreme examples - actual instances of this phenomenon have historically been limited to twitches, gyro rebalancing, and system flushes. But the danger is there that a mech left to its own devices could replace its pilot with a jury-rigged mess of neural tissue that could do little more than spill hallucinatory input into action. It could act against orders, with a rudimentary and misguided autonomy. We need a pilot's judgement there to serve as a buffer between machine and movement.

So, to ensure that a pilot's many roles are not run roughshod over, not obviated, special techniques are required to keep the mech from overgrowing those areas. A system designed to fill all gaps, to patch all vacancies - keeping it outside of strict boundaries, while still able to cooperate smoothly and efficiently when a pilot is filling said voids? It can be extremely tricky, both conceptually and in practice. Working in void theory takes peculiar and unique minds - it requires systems architects that know how mechs think, and can learn how to confuse or mislead them - not easy when you're talking about an alien mind. The psychology of the machine - how do we create gaps in a near-consciousness's perception of reality? How do we promote self-knowledge and self-improvement while maintaining critical deficiencies for our pilots to bridge?

It's a symbiosis that must be kept codependent. Neither of us can be allowed to survive without the other - mechs can't be allowed to function without a pilot, and pilots must be kept dependent on their mechs. Any deviation from this paradigm would threaten the ecosystem of human military culture.

So Void Theory works constantly against metachem optimization's relentless, persistent power.

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Good Dolls Play Pretend

The doll knew about this store since it was a person, but it never bothered coming before it became. Now, it stopped by every time it was in the city to collect some authentic Asian tea. The mall was a little out of the way, but its witch didn't mind! So it sipped on some boba tea it ordered from a specialty cafe just a floor down while it decided on what flavour to-

"Woah, [XXXXX]?"

It froze as it turned to face whatever just spoke. It was a person, a man that was once the same age as it, a man that it tried and failed to date before it became. "Oh my god, it's been so long, how've you been?" He seems genuinely excited to see this one again.

This one learned to cover its joints with sweaters and longer skirts. This one knew how to talk to make people less mad or confused. This one knew how to play pretend.

"No way! Oh my god, I totally didn't expect to run into you." it said, forcing away its usual eager docility for normal human surprise.

The conversation continued as it would. The man went back to finish his undergrad after the hotel job didn't work out. This one bent the truth just enough to say it found a job as a maid for a normal upper-class woman. It was working, he believed this one! Such a good doll. It was so polite too, nodding along, encouraging him to talk, even accepting his party invitation!

. . . . .

This one finally left the store with a friendly wave as the person went in a different direction. It held the bag of tea as it waited for the bus, finding stillness as it alwaIT ACCEPTED HIS PARTY INVITATION.

Jeans, plain black t-shirt, thin grey zip-up hoodie. Normal person clothes.

Human, it reiterated to itself, waiting for the man to unlock the door to the university's dormitory building. This one... I am a normal human. I have normal human hobbies, such as... chess. I don't smoke but I occasionally drink. I own a computer... no, a laptop, and use it a few hours a week. No, a few dozen. I sometimes order fast food with an app on my cell phone.

The door opens and this one begins to pretend. It is not politely standing at attention, awaiting orders. It has a relaxed demeanour and a casual regard for most things. It smiled at those sent to great it and lead it to the on-campus pub, with the amount of demureness that is normally expected from a human person.

This one can hear the music from all the way down the hall. It is intentionally showing a normal human reaction, which is neutrality.

This one hasn't been contributing to the conversation as much as it thinks it should. The people have been talking at it, explaining what a pub crawl is and what kind of alcohol it should order. It really, really, really shouldn't ask if they serve tea.

The people take a seat at one of the tables, and it joins. The others ask what it would like to order for an appetizer. It says the pizza seems tastiest. It doesn't say it seems the least messy.

The waitress arrives. The others are ordering drinks. They're saying names the doll doesn't recognize, and maybe never did. The doll asks the waitress what drinks they have, and the others look at it with amusement. The waitress suggests an apple cider for beginners, and the doll accepts, not caring how she knew.

It sat still. This one was great at sitting still. But it didn't feel any stillness at all. This doll's purpose is ease the burden on others. To help them relax by taking care of something they would stress about or be annoyed by, by helping them talk through their emotions, or even just by staying out of the way and leaving people alone. The closest it could get was by remaining seated with three other partygoers. At first they occasionally deferred to this one for input on a conversation, but it seems something told them not to do that anymore as the night went on. Did they... find out?

"[XXXXX]?"

The doll is startled, realizing its attention is needed. It didn't catch the first time it was said. Everything is so loud. It holds no animosity towards its old personhood. Just the same hazy disconnection one feels towards a half-remembered dream.

"You don't look too hot. Did you drink too much?"

The doll looked at its half-finished drink. The doll looked at the exit. The doll nodded.

He escorts you out the building's closest exit. He leans forward on the railing, lighting a cigarette. He offers it one, and it refuses.

The person apologizes for inviting the doll, saying that he could tell it was upset. The doll asks him if he knows, and he says he only assumed until it asked that.

In an instant, the doll's thin veneer of humanity fades away. It fixes its posture, its face slackening into a much more natural empty expression. Its arms rest together, hands wrapped in each other.

The person hesitates, seeing such a shift. He looks back out over the railing he leans on, taking a drag as he looks out into the city.

He asks if it misses its witch. It says that Miss gave it full permission to spend the night out. He says that's not what he asked. The doll says it would much rather be home.

The person sighs. He apologizes again and thanks the doll for doing its best tonight. He puts out his cigarette and turns to face the door, leaning his back against the railing. He looks over to the doll, and it hasn't moved.

He asks if it wants the others to know, and it says no. He says he'll make up a lie, something about a family emergency. That way it can go do... anything else.

The doll thanks him. It didn't even consider refusing.

The relief is nearly instant. There's a melancholy in its chest as it walks away, after giving the person a formal goodbye. It's very happy to leave such a... restless situation, but there's a lingering sense that it's been a bad doll. It's hard for it to articulate why. It didn't do anything that Miss says makes you a bad doll, except maybe do a bad job at pretending.

But it couldn't be sure. Maybe that was what was making it so restless? It couldn't defer to Miss right now. It didn't have that external solidity, the confirmation of purpose.

That made it very happy to be a doll again.

[ilium-ilia]

SIMON AND CHIPPY SIMON AND CHIPPY SIMON AND CHIPPY-

jokes on you it's just pain.

[kowwpow]

The Painter and the Muse

A/N: dude I love torturing Dazai sometimes, he’s not tragic enough in my eyes. This was heavily inspired by this headcanon/drabble I wrote, and this art by @drlqra (title was also inspired by their work, go check it out, its freaking awesome) (Some parts might not be accurate to canon, and I apologize for that)

TWs⚠️: mentions of death, panic attack(?), lmk if I missed anything^^

Dazai wasn’t quite sure when it started, but the sense of disarray had begun to overtake and cloud his mind. At first, he believed it was because he didn’t think he deserved the job Taneda offered him. Him? Working as a detective? After all the things he’d done?

But as time went on and as Dazai lived under the radar for longer and longer, he realized it was something entirely different. The feeling of something being so vastly wrong persisted, even when he grew accustomed to the idea of working in the light.

It didn’t strike Dazai that Oda could be the center of this… wrongness, that he could be the cause of Dazai’s distress.

It didn't hit him. Until it did, like a brick. He had been lying on his motel bed with his head hanging off the side, staring at Oda’s coat that was hanging off the back of a chair when it did.

What… did Oda even look like?

The revelation that he couldn’t even recall the face of his best friend, the man he was doing this all for, made him startle, and badly at that. He felt the hair on his arms begin to rise as he stared blankly at the coat. He didn’t feel like he could move; he couldn’t think, which scared him. He relied so heavily on his brain that the moment he couldn’t properly use it anymore, he quickly spiraled into panic.

And boy, was this one of the worst panic attacks he’s had in a while. Wh—how could he forget what Oda looked like?! How could he let that happen!?

Dazai hastily sprung up from his position and desperately reached for Oda’s coat. He felt like he had just committed the worst crime in existence, and maybe it was to Dazai. In his panicked daze, he wanted nothing more than to see Oda again. Not only because he missed him so terribly, but to reassure himself that he could remember his face.

The distraught boy draped the beige coat over his shoulders and hugged it so very tightly to his body as he moved to ball himself up in the nearest corner.

He bounced his leg rapidly, but the stimulation did nothing to calm his increasingly disturbed mind. Oh god, oh why, why why why? He didn’t even have the pictures they took in the bar the last time he, Oda, and Ango were together as friends; why didn’t he push to keep at least one?!

Dazai stared blankly and silently at the floor, trying to process why exactly he could remember. Oh, he hated this so much; he didn’t want to forget him.

Not for the first time, he wanted Oda back. He wanted him to tell Dazai it was okay and that he wouldn't be mad if he couldn’t remember him. But no, Oda was dead, and Dazai would never get his reassurances again.

Dazai wanted to snap out of it; the logical part of his brain was screaming at him to get a grip already. But the emotional part, which he’d worked so hard to tame, just ran rampant. Dazai couldn’t explain how much this hurt him; it destroyed him, like he was being eaten alive from the inside out.

He felt like this was the worst punishment he could have been given for all his wrongdoings, and maybe he deserved it. But wasn’t this too cruel a consequence? Even for him…?

He knew that, logically, there had to be some sort of solution; there just had to be, but finding a solution felt impossible for his overwhelmed mind.

He gave the idea of trying for a fix to his problem another go once he had regained control over his panic and had calmed down. He wracked his brain, frantically trying to think of anything. He couldn’t do photography, because, again, Oda wasn’t here, and he refused to go to Ango for the pictures. He’d live for the rest of time before he asked for anything from that man.

What solutions did that leave him, really? He couldn’t ask if anyone knew him, being a mafia member, Oda’s identify would be unknown to almost everyone.

So that left one last option. Art. Music, drawing, anything in the genre. But painting stood out the most to him, because paintings were always beautiful. And if he could preserve Oda in beauty, he’d be happy.

See, the problem wasn’t that Dazai forgot every single aspect of Oda’s appearance, it was that he couldn’t piece the individual features together.

He remembers the exact shade of auburn Oda’s hair was, he could picture every eyelash on his eye, but together it felt like a giant mess of blurred colors and shapes.

So maybe, just maybe, he could figure out how to perfectly paint his dear friend’s features, and figure out how to put the pieces together like a puzzle.

He needed to remember again, it’d kill him if he didn’t. He would do anything to remember. He spent the little money he had on canvases, paintbrushes, and paints of the highest quality he could afford. Anything he couldn’t afford, he just stole.

He was going to perfect the art of painting Oda to preserve his memory, and perfect it he did.

Atsushi thought it was odd, it perplexed him. Dazai didn’t seem to be the type of person to enjoy painting of all hobbies. Sure, he saw mini canvas with sceneries that held more than twice the effort than Dazai put into his work, but painting seemed like something so much tamer that he’d envision Dazai doing?

Well, at least Dazai enjoyed it. Or, he seemed to, at least.

Atsushi had only been to Dazai’s apartment a handful of times, and to say it was cluttered was an understatement. Not only was it filled with empty bottles of alcohol and canned crab, the entirety of one corner of Dazai’s room was absolutely littered with paint and artistic mediums alike.

Paint, brushes, pencils, charcoal, pastels, you name it.

But what far outnumbered any other item in the cramped room were canvases. Filled canvases, of the same person, over and over again.

Atsushi often wondered who that person was, what the name of the gentle looking muse that filled every inch of Dazai’s small, artistic space was. Whenever he asked, Dazai would gush about the paintings, but would never once identify the strange man. Atsushi figured it to be a touchy subject, so he eventually stopped asking.

It wasn’t until he found Dazai at a grave, sketching out a new painting of the same figure, that he realized the connection.

Maybe, painting would be good for Dazai.

If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging! It helps in reaching a larger audience^^

Taglist 🏷️: @larz-barz @mooechi @saffron0v0 @zenitsustherapist @gyutarowritings

@muichirolover14 @midnightmah07

[lucysgraybird]

⋆˙⟡ live in that one moment ⟡˙⋆

racer!william h bonney x gn!reader

@phantomamor IT'S OUT thank you so much for planting him in my head.....

warnings: one mildly suggestive comment and several probably egregious creative liberties about f1

Coming into the final race of the season, scores are not where anyone had hoped. On one hand, yes, Billy is third on the leaderboard, and not an insurmountable margin from second or even first. On the other, the entire board is that close, and with the challenges presented by the track for the Singapore Grand Prix, backsliding feels more likely than the kind of win that would pull him up two places. Racing is difficult - and dangerous - in the best conditions, and the Marina Bay Street Circuit brings anything but kindness. Besides the strenuous layout of the course, it demands 62 laps of focus in outdoor temperatures scraping 90 degrees and air so soupy you could swim in it. Over the last week, Billy had taken (on recommendation of his coach) to sitting in a sauna to try and acclimatize to the projected cockpit temperatures. Each stint had left him sweaty and miserable and all the more anxious about the upcoming race, and it was all you could do to wrap around him in bed after his shower until you both fell asleep. The morning of the race had him irritable and jumpy, but, always all too aware of the potential for disaster in these races, he had given you a firm kiss goodbye and an “I love you” before he disappeared to get ready.

Now, sat far above the track in the viewing box, you were only becoming more nervous. It's not about Billy winning, though of course you want him to do well. It makes him happy, and that glow he has after a good race is one of the most beautiful things in the world. Rather, it's the familiar roll of your stomach that stems from the knowledge of just how badly this race could go. The turns are numerous and frequent, and the structure of the track forces the cars close together; the potential for contact with other racers or with the barriers makes it nerve-wracking even for the most skilled driver. You've never voiced your anxieties to Billy, even though you know he knows. On hazy, fluorescent-lit nights, inner walls become translucent from just a little too much alcohol and he's admitted to you how scared he is that he could lose his life on one of these tracks. Worse, to him, is the idea that he would survive but never race again, and that loss would leave him a different, worse man. Worse is the idea that he doesn't know who he is unless he can get behind the wheel. You, of course, would much rather him alive in any capacity, but it's not hard to see where he's coming from. On these nights, you just pet his dark hair, dyed an oil-slick rainbow by the neon glare of city lights outside. You tell him that he's kind and worldly and (too) selfless and that all of those things would remain, regardless of how quickly he can tear around a hairpin, but it's easy to see that it doesn't help. That he doesn't quite believe you.

A blaring announcement stirs you from your reverie, and the racers have begun to take their positions on the track. Billy strides out, the red of his suit stark against the dark asphalt; you can see the way his curls are already going limp in the heat. Even though he can't see you, he turns towards the viewing box and blows a kiss. You mime catching it. You know he can see you tuck the affection into your pocket in his mind’s eye as he tugs his helmet on and swings into the cockpit of the car.

Though you know there's a series of minutes that trickle by, it feels like a blink before the lights turn green and the drivers are rocketing down the track. It's twelve laps before there's a collision. On the other side of the track, two cars go spinning out after making contact with one another, and it's just far enough that you have to wait for the announcement that no, no one was hurt, and no, it wasn't Billy. The relief that courses through you is tinged with guilt: somewhere on this track or, worse, across the world, there's someone who was waiting with a chest just as tight as yours was, and theirs snapped instead of uncoiled with that proclamation.

Somehow, blessedly, the rest of the race flutters by without major incident. Coming into the last few laps, Billy is jockeying with a McLaren driver for first. The positions seem to change every few seconds, the cars eking ahead of each other by the tips of their noses, and when the checkered flag falls as they cross the finish line, it's impossible to tell who sped across first. people are buzzing, and all placements except second and first are lighting up on the board.

There's a breath. Then two, three. As the seconds drag on, the breaths stop coming. Hold, wait. Try to dig your fingers through the plastic of the chair in front of you.

When the final call comes in, the room explodes.

William H. Bonney, Ferrari, first place.

And with a time that gives him just enough points to tip the needle from third to second to overall first, making him the winner of the championship. The box is roaring as he accepts his trophy at the podium, shining from the inside out (especially the out, his tan skin flushed and coated in a sheen of sweat). When he steps down, you've just managed to stumble down from the box in a marvelous haze, so proud of him that it feels like it's tying around your windpipe. Billy’s trying to answer questions and accept compliments with crystal eyes that never settle on anyone for long, darting from person to person and jumping over the crowd in search of you. When he finally spots you, he's stumbling over an apology and a promise to return to the reporter trying to extract conversation from him. You're at his side in a second and he barely gets out the warning that he's soaked in sweat, in just his fireproofs from the waist up, before you're throwing your arms around him in the fiercest hug you can manage. True to his word, he is…damp, and he smells like salt and musk and car, and it's a little bit gross but it's also a lot him, and by that virtue it's sexy and comforting in equal measure. He smushes his nose against the part of your hair as you mumble praise into his shoulder, and then you're pulling back and trying to wipe sweat from his skin. He laughs and catches your hands.

“Don't bother, honey, ain't any way to stay cool out here. Besides,” he says, leaning down to keep his next words away from prying microphones, “when I'm done here and showered, we're both going to end up very, very sweaty all over again.”

[naraven]

Dear Stray Dog Anon,

Your matchup has been complete! After some deliberation, Doctor, we think you would best have this person as your next assistant:

THORNS

cw // she/her doctor (anon goes by she/her), slight yandere, drugging, slightly obsessive, slightly possessive

A most reliable operator and pharmacologist, I can see the two of you getting along well on the battlefield and in a lab together!

Thorns will be the first to tell you that he's not a very likeable person at first. Not that he cares, but you're... likeable in a way that he's never seen before.

You command him well. Almost every time you depart with him on the team, everything seems to be well timed and perfectly placed. You know how he works in combat to a T. You celebrate by giving him an awkward thumbs up, despite the confidence in your voice while coldly dropping him down into the fight not even half and hour ago.

And off the field, he notices more and more the oddity that you are. For some reason you despise any gifts you've been given. Any present or surprise gift has you smiling shakily, giving the impression that you're just a bit shy, yet reel back in what looks like fear the moment you think you're alone.

When Thorns met you for for the first time, he tested the waters. He offered you a drink, mixed in with his newest concoction, and found himself secretly pleased with the curt rejection.

"It's not for you. I want to see the effects of my creation."

And he's even more pleased when you bring it to your lips hesitantly, and then gulp it all down in three large swallows. Soon enough, he had you testing out his more... adventurous ideas under the guise of research.

On a rare moment where you have some free time, you go to see what he's up to in his lab. As usual, he's cooking up something that results in what he thinks is a rather mild explosion.

When he sees you running up to him, he mentally prepares himself for a scolding from the Doctor herself. Turning, he opens his mouth to defend himself, before-

"What was that? Are you okay- wow, you smell like a barbecue, haha!"

He pushes you away when you start smelling the soot in his hair. Tussling his hair to shake out the dust, he pushes you back when you get closer to him again.

As The Doctor of Rhodes Island, he gives and takes knowledge. Granted, he isn't an Infected, but hearing you give mini lectures between breaks in your office had him learning more about Originium that he had ever expected. The visuals on your tiny whiteboard served to further help him grasp certain topics.

Both of your favorite activities to do together is to wake up a bit early, go up to the roof of the landship, and feel the wind blowing back in silence. The clouds passing by, the cool breeze, and the nostalgia of it all. You only return back inside when the sun becomes too bright and work has to be finished.

"Doctor? It's the Doctor!"

Thorns turns around when he hears a bright, high voice call your moniker. A group of young, Infected patients come running as the two of you were walking around the Rhodes Island landship for a quick break from paperwork and the droning of the radio.

"Doctor! I haven't seen you in so long!"

"Who's this, Doctor?"

"Doctor, that candy you gave me the other day got stolen by my sister, can I have another one?"

He sees you wobble as one of the kids tugs at your overcoat. Throwing up your hands in mock surrender, you get down on a knee to approach them at an equal level.

"Alright, one at a time. Sorry, I've been busy with a lot of work. This is Operator Thorns, say hi! He's super smart and cool, so be sure to treat him well! And here, a piece of candy for all of you."

The children cheer, only for a Medic operator to turn the corner and bring them all back to their rooms. They all complain and whine, all of them wailing to have you come back with them.

"Doctor? Sorry about them, they all just underwent a couple tests. I'll get them off your back."

She seems really tired. Thorns remains standing off to the side, combing through his choppy hair.

"Well, I would love to, guys, but Thorns and I have a lot to get done. Maybe if you kids are good, I can drop by later, okay?"

A chorus of "okay!" echo back, and they all burst into excited chatter, leaving you and Thorns to continue your little walk.

"I didn't know you had such high opinion about me."

"Haha, well, we've been working together for how long? Shouldn't some kind of mutual respect be forming between us?"

You elbow him playfully, and he fiddles around with some test potions.

"Here. Catch."

"Woah!"

Carelessly, he tosses you a small vial. Instead of the usual yellow thick liquid, this one is purple and seems a lot thinner.

"And... this is?"

He straightens out his cuffed sleeve. Raising your brows, you throw your head back and belch at the taste.

"Ew. That might be the worst one you've given me yet."

Thorns is quiet. "Is it?"

"Yeah? Why, is it not... supposed to be?"

"No, I wouldn't know what it would taste like."

Scrunching your nose, you sniff the leftover content of the liquid inside. It smells... kind of burnt.

"Did you mess this one up? It stinks. Funky."

Thorns gestures for you to pass him the vial, and he takes a sniff himself.

"Hm. It was perfect."

Huh?

"Then... What even is that?"

He pops the vial shut, and suddenly you feel a surge of vertigo.

"Thorns, what the f-"

You can't even finish your sentence before he opens his arms. You fill into the gaps between his body, and you panic when you feel your fingertips getting numb.

"Operator Thorns, what do you think you're doing."

He sets you down. Strangely, you stay fully conscious, and the dizzy spell a moment ago is gone. Only the numbing sensation spreads, and soon your entire arms lose feeling.

"Don't worry. This feeling won't last long. I suspect the numbness to be gone within three or four hours, and nothing else will happen."

You struggle to feel... anything.

"I... don't even know what to tell you."

"Then don't. You keep your words brief during operations."

"That's because it's necessary." You snap. "I'm losing my patience here. Get me back to my office or something."

"I can't do that."

"Why?"

Because... I need you for just a couple hours more, he wants to say. You've been busy doing work without engaging with him, and you sleep in more and more. I want to be with you for just a little longer, where you can't run, where we can just talk.

I need you away from other people. I need you to stay with me. I want you, I need you, I crave more of you.

"Because." He starts. "You need me."

[bidisaster-peanut-romano]

considering the state of bullworth (the city), what do you think the state of the country or world is like? do you think bullworth has a unique culture, or is it almost representative of the society outside its perimeters?

i think about what hal esposito said a lot when he and lucky were finding things to watch on the tv. "what? war footage and natural disasters doesn't do it for you?"

considering it is highly likely that the world's condition is very chaotic, how might this affect bullworth and its residents?

hello there!!! ah yes, geography. my beloathed

that's an interesting question of course, yes!! my instinctive thought when first reading this ask was what i always asumed, ie: the news hal and lucky were referring about weren't local but, yknow, american general news. also bc paris from the carnival says something very similar in front of her tv, and we know that the carnival travels, so i wouldn't think of something too different.

however!! let's go by steps there, because thinking about it that's something i never properly expanded upon.

so, first of all: canonically speaking, bullworth is in new england. now, as a non-usamerican, i have very little knowledge of anything about hyperspecific cultures in america, maybe just some west coast zones or south and some midwest.

however!! the fact that there are so many kids of italian certain descent and some other kids with non anglophone last names (kowalski, brakus, luna, karamazov, etc) implies that it is an important destination for migrations. this makes me think of earlly 1900s new york, which would certainly be coherent.

now, a long time ago i found the certain information that bullowrth was supposed to be in new hampshire. however, since i have learned that "trust me bro" is never a good source, i went back to dig some deeper into the whole thing: it still seems to be more or less agreed upon that the state is new hampshire, also because someone noted a striking resemblance of bullworth with the phillips exeter academy. of course maybe it wasn't as explicit and direct as this user puts it, but it is suggestive enough that it would be nice to go with it.

now, first about the culture: we mentioned bullworth being basically a melting pot. this means that it is not only unique, but in fact very diverse, also depending on the zone. for example, i think in new coventry you'll find an especially colorful culture, with people coming from different places and different cultures, everyone holding onto their own but also interacting with their neighbor. you'll find people giving each other giving their best wishes to their neighbor for a festivity they don't even celebrate but know the other does. i mean, maybe you'll have some catholic complaining about the shop being closed just that day, but cue to the stereotypical southern italian wife smacking him behind his head and telling her good friend is home with their family and he mustn't be an annoying jerk (not in so many words, of course).

it is probably quieter the more you get closer to the vale. maybe in town there will be the occasional decoration outside of the house or in a shop, but overall… i'd say that the fundamental sentiment in bullworth is, exactly as the school crest says, canis canem edit. mind your own business and you'll live a hundred years, like an old saying goes. keep a good distance, so they don't hurt you and you don't hurt them.

and in fact, the vale is where this hyperindividualism gets ornated with the hypocrisy of the Good People, some facade to keep so that not only no conflict is created, but any chance and risk of it is perfectly concealed. you have the middle class-bourgeois, christian family who greet their neighbors with a smile and then speculate on all their disgraces as soon as the front door closes. and everything that happens in the family stays in the family, dirty laundry is washed at home.

yeah, overall i'd say. the whole point of bullworth culture is self-sufficiency, it's doing the best of what you have and care thoroughly and not let anyone else touch what's yours.

now, the natural condition of the territory: established that we are on the new hampshire coast, i have tried to dig a bit. i will bring up again something i mentioned earlier: i immediately assumed it was us or global news, but, while it is unfortunately enough to desensitize the general public to military violence, natural forces can be… a bit different.

i will tell a small anecdote about me. i grew up in an extremely seismic area, and by that i mean that we would experience at least a couple waves every some weeks, not strong enough to cause damage but enough to be perceived and do small stuff like making small objects fall off or ceiling lamps shake. and, y'know, it has always been perfectly normal for me, it has happened while i was in class and the worst thing was that i smudged a line on the essay i was writing. but then i moved away for college, and, when in geography we started talking about earthquakes, my professor admitted being scared shitless of seismic waves. my friends got the news of some waves in my native area and asked me how my family was; my mom was like “what do you mean four? i only felt three”

what was that to say? well. in my experience, the general masses are much more moved by natural disasters than by wars. so, in some way, the idea that hal and lucky were at most annoyed by the repetitiveness of the news makes me think that they have some experience with it. earthquakes probably aren't the ones, since, well. plate tectonics. which i will not explain here mostly because i have already passed that exam and i want nothing to do with it ever again LMAO. but anyway the east coast is a very stable area of the earth, so no earthquakes nor volcanoes. and, since it is located tightly in a small gulf, i think sea storms and tidal waves are out of the question too.

however! apparently, tornadoes are not too infrequent in the area, nor, i guess, storms and other similar climate events. as i mentioned before: what happens there is that you get kind of desensitized there; the thought of anything horrible happening isn't there, or, if it is, it barely hits with its full force. “but what if it is stronger next time?” we'll all just die, at least i won't have to worry about rent anymore, maybe my boss will finally kick the bucket too, ha-ha. what do you mean someone died in the next city? well, you know, it can happen.

so yeah, when you ask how it affects the people of bullworth- it probably just amplifies whatever nihilism is already there, y'know. see constantinos, who's most probably clinically depressed, or lefty's “life sucks and then you die”, which is disturbing, especially coming from a kid his age.

i guess it's not the only factor, but it does contribute to this feeling of bullworth just being some lost land, forsaken by god himself left to its own devices. it's like the entirety of the population is... in survival mode, as i tend to say; you just pull through, which should be the bare minimum, but there we are. think of yourself first, then your neighbor, but actually fuck your country, since it has never done a thing for me.

[baeshijima]

OKAY MYDEIS PART IS OFFICIALLY COMPLETED AT FOUR-FUCKING-THOUSAND WORDS

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

as for the entire fic word count so far.....

haha...

[honey-tea-and-lemon-trees]

48 and 63 🩷💜

thanks love!!!

Read on AO3 if you prefer <3

send me a sensory prompt if you want

nace: #48 A quiet sigh as they turn away and #63 Indigo skies just before dawn

It has been a great many hours since the cold of the rock slab leaked through his jeans. Ace clears his throat and shifts his seat, tries focusing his attention again on the waves of the bay rolling out… and in… He carefully traces the edges of the surf, eyes skipping over the pebbles and sand.

His mom would probably be tutting at him right now, telling him he should’ve brought a blanket. Actually, she would definitely be shaking her head at him for sitting on a beach in the middle of the night in late February at all. She’d cluck her tongue at him and shove a scolding hot mug of something in his hand and a kiss on his forehead for good measure.

He can guess the time based on the bruised purple sky, dotted with darker patches of knotted grey clouds, but still he reaches for his phone anyway. 

Some of the town is waking right about now, he reckons. His mom will be getting up now if she’s working the morning shift at the library, wrapped in her well-worn daisy covered dressing gown, shuffling about the kitchen and boiling water for tea. He wonders whether she’ll have her usual herbal or maybe one of the bags of Earl Grey that Bess turned her onto. She’s probably humming along to something on the radio.

He taps on the screen with a gentle touch, finding his way to her contact page, and his thumb hovers over the call button. There’s a lump he doesn’t want to think about forming in his throat.

It’s too early, Ace decides. 

He’ll try her later. He will. 

Just about to shove his phone in his pocket, the screen lights up with another name. 

Look up. 

Ace straightens, stretching his shoulders as he realises how his tired muscles had started to hunch and casts his eyes over his shoulder. Nancy waves at him with a tight-lipped smile as she trudges down the slope to the bay. 

The crunch of her boots on the shells and pebbles as she crosses the beach towards him is the first new sound he’s heard in hours, other than the lapping crash of the waves in front of him. He welcomes the noise, and the sight of her as she gets closer even more.

Nancy rounds the large flat rock he’d found near the bottom of the cliff face. He’d chosen it for its wide, empty surface, plenty of room for an uncomfortable night of staring out at empty surf. She perches right beside him, he can almost feel the warmth of her thigh, no more than a couple inches from his own.

For a second, neither of them say anything and, for some reason, Ace can’t tear his eyes away from Nancy’s profile as she stares out at the waves. Even in the dull light of barely-morning, she is a brilliant flash of warmth and colour and after the hours of only grey-blue-purple-black, he allows himself to drink her in a little longer. 

Her steady blue eyes meet hers, and she says nothing of the way he’s studied her. Only blinks and asks, ‘Anything?’

He shakes his head. ‘Sorry,’ he murmurs. 

For a few nights now, they’d been trying to find a ghost who, amongst more serious grievances, had been leaving wet footprints in his wake. He, Nancy and Bess had thought they’d managed to narrow down Salty Joe’s point of origin to a few different stretches of the beach. After a few failed summoning attempts, Nick suggested they just see if they could wait just him out. 

At his answer, Nancy smiles, only slightly, and turns back to the sea, their shoulders bumping slightly. She inhales deeply through her nose and lets out a tired, quiet sigh. ‘I didn’t really think so,’ she admits quietly. 

Ace shrugs, jostling their shoulders once more. ‘Me either, but was worth a shot, I guess.’ 

The sun’s not up yet, but it’s coming any second now, Ace reckons. 

‘Why’d you leave your spot?’ he mumbles, his brow creasing slightly. They were due to meet in the parking lot of the Claw just after dawn. So he supposes he means to ask, Why’d you come here?

Nancy quietly clears her throat before she says, ‘You were quiet tonight,’ in that even, giving-nothing-away tone of hers, like she’s changing the subject. He’s not entirely sure that she is though.

He feels his pulse thump a touch faster, but he tries to match her steadiness. ‘Some people would say I’m always a’little quiet.’ His mom once said he chooses to make his waves in different ways. 

Nancy shoots him a deadpan look that says, Please, give me more credit than that. She holds his gaze and pushes forward on her path as she asks, ‘Something on your mind?’ 

Ace clenches his jaw and it suddenly stings a bit behind his eyes. He can’t believe she noticed him.

A slow breeze flicks strands of hair across Nancy’s face, but she doesn’t turn away from him as he struggles to turn the hot lump of feelings in his throat into words that won’t burn. 

‘I’m just… missing my mom,’ he admits thickly, pushing his own hair back behind his ears in his go-to nervous tell. ‘It’s been about a month since my dad… y’know.’ Gave him the boot. And Ace and his mom still talk, they do. It’s just… ‘It’s really complicated, and… yeah.’ 

Nancy lips thin in a sad, understanding expression. Ace watches the slightest bob of her throat as she swallows, and his skin starts to prickle with the discomfort of an ugly feeling being seen, even by someone he trusts. He can’t help but turn away.

There are streaks of pink and blue slowly unfolding across the sky now. He follows the lines of blending, bleeding colours down, down. There’s the barest peek of sun out beyond the bay, a startling, deep orange that reminds him of another comforting colour. 

There’s a rustle of movement and then Nancy’s fingers, ungloved, shyly curl around his. 

‘She misses you too.’ 

He adjusts his grip and holds Nancy’s hand fully, grateful for more than just the warmth that’s trickling into his chilled hand. 

‘You been chatting with my ma, Nancy?’ he breathes, almost a laugh. 

A few more moments, and the dull, indigo night will be gone, pierced by shards of golden light. Only a little for now, but enough that it’s not fully dark anymore. 

Nancy shakes her head and shuffles slightly closer on the rock, her thumb stroking the back of his hand, coaxing the warm back into him. ‘I just know I’d miss you.’

[dance-in-the-morning-glow]

HERE IT IIIIS!

nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day

Here, in the silence between crashing waves and her untroubled sleep, every one of his fears and hopes was intermingled. Cutler didn’t believe in fate, in an almighty god or destiny, but what was this if not a second chance? His chance to show her how good a life under the protection of his name could be. How rewarding, how safe.

or: a stolen moment by the sea

1,1k words, Cutler Beckett x OFC, angst, bittersweet, pining, emotionally repressed, character study

(can be read on its own, though it might have more impact if you’ve read my longfic)

[wifeiy]

anon who mentioned dry humping w akaashi i am cooking 4 u. wait 4 me

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Good Dolls Don't Lie

(A stand-alone follow-up to Good Dolls Play Pretend)

The cafe was on the top floor of the library. The trip into the city was nice; all you needed was to be told the directions once, and you could find stillness as you travelled.

Before long at all, you reach the top of the steps, and see him waiting for you. He notices you and waves, before getting up from his seat, leaving his coat and bag behind to come and great you.

"Hey! Hey, I'm… really glad you made it. Was it cold?"

You smile, giving him a little curtsy. You tell him you're glad, and that the weather wasn't a problem.

"Oh, right, that... yeah. Doll. That makes sense."

The line for the counter is just a few people long, all of them going to sit to wait for their drinks. As they wait, the person is nervous; he's bouncing on his feet and rubbing the lining of his pants pockets. The doll is still.

"Hi there, how can I help you?" The barista asks with a deliberate smile.

"Oh, I'll just have a hot chocolate."

"Of course. And for the doll?"

"Um…" he looked at you.

You politely give the barista your order, a chai latte.

The barista is surprised when it hears you speak your own order. "Alright, coming right up! Please have a seat." She says in a cheery tone, turning back away from you to address the person.

He leads you to your seat. It's in the corner, giving you a wonderful view of the people below. There are people waiting for the bus, walking along the sidewalk as they talk into their phone, and there's even someone sitting just outside of the library trying to eat a sandwich without taking off his mittens.

You're lost in thought, for only a moment. You think about people, how rich the lives and inner worlds are of everyone you see. Every direction you look has a million people doing a billion different things. Every stranger having struggles you could never have the chance to help with.

"H-hey, so uh..." You turn to face the stammering person across the table. You can tell he's still fidgeting with his pockets. "Thanks for meeting up with me today. You really didn't have to... sorry, is 'you' okay?"

You give a polite nod, telling him you don't mind and thanking him for asking.

"I didn't wanna just assume." He smiles back. "Anyway, uh... yeah. I wanted to apologize about the party, I never would've invited you if I knew about the whole, uh..." He gestures towards you.

You forgive him, and thank him for inviting you, and then for recognizing your discomfort in the moment.

He forced a nervous chuckle. "You're not just, like, saying that, right? I know that like, dolls are polite and stuff, but..." He trails off, looking to you expectantly.

You softly shake your head, and tell him that good dolls don't lie.

He exhales, leaning back in his chair. He takes his hands out of his pockets, one resting on the table as the other glides through his long hair. "Okay, that's... really great to hear. I'm glad."

A call for a hot chocolate and chai latte from across the seating area. You begin to stand. "Oh, let me!" He slides out of his seat, turning to leave, but quickly turning back. "Unless you want to? I can like, let you, if this is a doll thing."

You tell him it's fine. You worry about tone a little too late, and decide to smile at him after he's turned back around. He looks excited to be so helpful. It's the closest he's been to the supportive rock he acted as at the party, when he got to help you.

You look back out the window. The sandwich man's given up and taken his mittens off. His hands look cold.

The person sets your tea down in front of you and takes his place. He watches you as you take a sip, seeming almost disappointed when your reaction is poised and subdued. You quickly take a second sip. You compliment the drink to him.

"Oh, cool! Makes sense you've got a taste for that kinda thing." He doesn't smile much, but he doesn't seem all that nervous anymore. He goes to take a sip of his drink, but sets it back down once the heat reaches his lips.

"So, I know tea is like, a doll thing. Is it... is it a physical thing?" He shrugs, unsure of himself. "Like when people are vampires, and normal food stops being, like, tasty."

You explain that it is simply something you enjoy, and your body lacks the needs of a human's.

"Oh, wow, that... yeah, that totally makes sense." He nods along knowingly, as if your words were more for confirmation that information. "So, uh, did it... sorry if this is a weird question, but did it hurt? I mean, when you, became." He stammers, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

You answer him, saying it was uncomfortable yet relieving, and comment that he seems interested in dolls.

"Oh! Well, like, a normal amount, I think." He adds, talking quickly and just a little excited. "I mean, it's just... interesting right? Just the idea that a person can just... stop being themselves. I mean, like, I get the idea that a lot of dolls say they were never human to begin with, but, just, y'know, the whole... becoming. And everything. It's neat."

You ask him if he's considered it.

He moves around more than this entire meeting up to this point as he considers his answer, talking as if he's desperate to convince you of something, but isn't sure what it is. "I...! I mean, like, who doesn't think about that sort of thing, right? I dunno, I mean, maybe if I was, like, one of those dolls they make from scratch, then y'know, obviously that'd be really cool, but like, I've just got, y'know..."

He trails off. He tries to take a sip of his drink and burns himself again.

You ask him, more clearly this time, if he wants to be a doll.

"I... I mean..." He looks away pensively, his gaze landing out the window. You glance quick, and see that the sandwich-eater has moved, and she has much longer hair than you could see before.

"What are people gonna say?" He shrugs, leaning forward. "I... I've got this whole life as a person. And besides, I... it's not something I really want anyway. I mean, like, you always hear about dolls that always knew, kids that pretended to be dolls on the playground, and I... that's not me. I wouldn't wanna, like... I dunno. I can live with being a person, really, it's not... I don't want it that bad."

You tell him good dolls don't lie.

He almost... flinches, like you touched an exposed nerve. Just beneath the surface, he's fighting off a giddy smile. "Uh, s-sorry, I, uh... yeah, I, I mean... it's..."

You give him a nod, and ask him if he'd like to visit Miss's manor some time. His smile finally bursts to the surface.

. . . . .

The new doll opens the door mere seconds after you knock.

"Oh, sorry, was this one late? It got a little distracted..."

You tell that one that it's fine, and it's perfectly on time. You can't help but peek behind it, only for a moment, seeing the full-length mirror. That wasn't there last night.

"Thank you so much for guiding this one..." The new doll sounds so heartfelt, its voice bubbling with gratitude. "It's... very excited to begin!"

The other doll excitedly follows you out, a spring in its step and a shine in its smile. All of its nervous apprehension cracked and discarded like an eggshell.

[atrophiedemotion]

hey Cast! uh so this ask is about. alien stage. but imma send you another about some random shit because why not. anyways

the tags that you had on that previous post with me and plip (the one about ivan and till and how they show honesty differently and how we know about their characters a different amount because of how forthcoming or not they are) and my question for you is, how many of Ivan's actions do you think are representative of his true emotions? I don't think his body language, in general, is very forthcoming but I do agree that his actions can be pretty revealing (he strikes me as an acts of service person especially with trying to escape with Till) but uh yeah I'm wondering if there are any specific examples that you think of as being revealing of his actual thoughts or specific examples of him pretending to be someone else?

thanks for listening to me yap uh I hope you're doing well and that you have an awesome day!

rock... oh boy... this is gonna be a long one. wonderful question. thank you for the ask, i hope you have a great day as well!!

so, i didn't fully explain in the tags because i didn't want to write a full length essay on plip's post (ty plip for dealing w the rambling)(i was also very tired so i wasn't fully articulate lmao) but i meant that ivan shows his emotions through the outcomes/projected outcomes of his actions. he certainly isn't very forthcoming in the way he acts and portrays himself, but there is undeniable truth in the intent and meaning behind everything he does, even things that seem counterproductive.

i think that since ivan genuinely cannot fully be upfront and honest (due to trauma, his lack of self worth, and his decided survival strategy) his main truths show in the deeper meaning of the things he does for other people and himself. with ivan, it is all about intent. i've said before that the only way to understand ivan is to dig deeper and this is very much true here. he uses a lot of subterfuge to throw people off from his actual intentions, but they're there.

ivan often uses unconventional, roundabout ways to achieve his goals/get what he wants- especially when they mean something to him. he is a guy who is caked in layers upon layers of meaning only if you pull back the acres of curtains he's covered them with. he doesn't want people to know what goes on in his head, so he covers it up valiantly. this is due to his low self esteem of course, but also full on survival. in order for his plans to work, no one can be in on it. no one can know what he's thinking. all of his true feelings and thoughts need to be hidden in order to achieve success, but in the end it's fucking hard to not leave a trace of your true feelings.

with all that being said, examples!

the biggest and most obvious examples are mainly related to till (of course they are) and i also feel like they're the most telling. ivan's teachers specifically pointed out that he was only childish around till (they were relieved by it, too, because he was so damn serious the rest of the time and didn't behave like a child should). ivan has the hardest time hiding his true emotions around till, which makes sense, because till makes him feel the most emotion when his are always dulled. that doesn't stop him from going the 'i must hide my crush by pulling his pigtails' route but, y'know.

since most of these are talked about frequently and i dont want to keep beating a dead horse in an already long post, here's a (hopefully) brief list:

-the biggest one, the meteor shower. going through all of that to escape with till, specifically during a meteor shower that it seemed ivan was desperate to show till (to introduce his shooting stars to each other or smth im sure). ivan offered till freedom and denied himself of it when till turned around and he followed him back without question.

-his good behavior can arguably be considered to be due, in part, to the perks an obedient pet gets. this isn't just a till thing but ivan's obedience is very telling of his need and drive for survival, which considering his uhh,, track record is likely largely so he can protect till. gaining perks and learning insider information, like how to take collars off and gain access to isolation cells, assist him in assisting and caring for till.

-the sometimes silent companionship they share. the way ivan will poke at him to get his outright attention but is still at times satisfied with just existing in till's space and enjoying his presence says a lot about his genuine adoration and admiration of till

-his sacrifice. i don't think i need to say much about this as it's pretty self explanatory lmao but it is a Great example of what im trying to convey. ivan does honest things and has to cover them up at the same time. the 'violence' was to end the round of course, but it was also kind of like a familiar bandaid over the painfully honest feelings he conveyed with the kiss. even if he didn't really hurt him he couldn't just be honest

there are definitely more (most everything he does in regards to till tbh) but i wanted to talk about some others too

the comic conversation with sua about her sacrifice! such a big one. ivan's feelings about sua are very complicated, but to me i feel like he cares about her to an extent, almost pitying in a way. he's horribly jealous of her and the love she has, but he sees so much of himself in her that what he says in that conversation is probably at least half projection, even if he's not aware of it.

the way he looks at her without trying to hide his distaste feels like the way he would look down on himself. the whole thing shows not only his disgust with himself, but his anger towards someone who is so similar to him that she makes the same plans in her head even though she has something he believes he'll never have. it's envy, tried and true, and he doesn't even hide it at the time. he hides the self loathing behind it, but still. that might be the most honest we've seen ivan aside from the end of r6.

that conversation also does kind of show the fact that he cares for sua and mizi. sua in a way he acknowledges less to himself, but certainly mizi.

and speaking of mizi, my last example for right now is the way he watched round 5 like he was barely holding it together and sort of did his own recreation of it in round 6. the strangling was reminiscent of the way mizi lunged at luka and he almost certainly got the idea for his method of sacrifice from what she did. it kind of feels like an ode to her, in a way. an ode to mizi while offering himself up for till, which. is very sad but almost a little sweet, that he had a piece of mizi in what he was doing for till.

okay okay im sure i could keep talking about this but ive been writing for. a long time LMAO so i will stop here but! yeah. ivan shows his emotions inadvertently through his actions and about fifty levels of subterfuge. but it's all we get, so...

thank you for the ask again my dude, i really enjoyed answering it!

[despairforme]

FEBRUARY WRITING GOAL!

[ Since I was on Hiatus last month, I have no writing to report on from January. Better make February a productive month! It's a short one, but I'm still going to be ambitious and go for; 30 000 WORDS. Across my blogs, and also counting any personal projects I might be wanting to work on this month. Happy writing guys! u v u // ]

[after-the-end-times]

Not Quite The Outlander AU Steve Wishes It Was

T ◈ 1k ◈ Kas!Eddie, Steve reads Outlander and gets an idea, No Actual Time Travel, Upside Down is healthy and recovered from Vecna's reign

AU where Eddie died in the Upside Down and Steve always regretted that day.

That he didn't leave someone else with Eddie and Dustin; that they were down there in the first place; that he was too slow getting back to save Eddie; that he didn't go over, grab Eddie, and kiss him for luck before walking away.

5 years later Steve sees a book in the grocery store that looks like something Eddie would've liked, so he picks it up, takes it home, and proceeds to read it straight through.

He finally looks up, blinking dry eyes and cracking his stiff spine, to see that it's been morning for some time.

The book was really really good and it gave him an idea. A crazy, never gonna work, idea. But it's Hawkins, so stranger things have happened.

So, Steve goes to where the gateways used to be. Other than El checking them every once in a while with her powers, no one's been back to those spots, especially not on purpose.

But Steve needs to know, needs to try, needs to see if he can save Eddie.

He walks up to each one and, with hope warring with 'this is nuts!', he reaches out a hand.

For the first ones, nothing happens. He'd hoped to at least feel something. But it's just nothing.

After trying all the easy to reach ones, including the basement of that horrible facility, he's finally on a boat, in the middle of a lake he'd refused to go back to for five years.

He probably should've told someone what he was doing, where he was. But it felt so silly when he started out, like he'd go, check, see, and be done.

Besides, how could he explain that he'd read a historical romance he picked up while buying groceries and thought yeah sure let's see if it'll work in real life?

But now here he is. In a boat. About to dive to the bottom of the lake. Hoping that it works. Hoping that he has enough air to get back.

The boat wobbles as he stands. He sees Eddie, from that night, when strips off his shirt, and tosses it to where Eddie had sat.

Breathing fast, he pumps his blood full of oxygen, and with one last deep deep breath, he dives.

Getting there is easy. Keeping his body down there while he tries to find the exact spot takes some extra effort. But he finds the ragged seam.

He presses his hand flat against it, hoping with everything inside him, hoping to go back, to try again, to see Eddie again

He thinks he feels a wobble in the water, but he can't be sure.

He's not suddenly pulled through like last time. He not suddenly in a empty lake like last time.

With his lungs fighting for air, he realizes he had to face the fact that nothing happened. It didn't work. There world be no magical solution. No last minute save. Not this time

He swims back to the surface, his body on autopilot while his mind tries to hold onto any shred of hope.

He breaks the surface, gasping in breaths. Eyes still closed, he leans back to let himself float for a moment, making himself breath slow and deep.

After a few minutes, when he feels his breathing return to normal and there's no longer a risk of crying, he looks for the boat.

The boat's gone.

The sky is violet.

The surrounding trees are willows.

It worked. He's in the Upside Down.

But it didn't work. He's supposed to be in the past. He's supposed to be back to that night before it all went wrong.

What's the point of being in this Upside Down. This Upside Down that looks like it's been healing and growing since they finally defeated Vecna. This Upside Down where Eddie will still be dead and buried.

That's how it worked in the book! She touched the stone and went into the past! What's the point of any of this if he doesn't get to save Eddie!

He's floating still, on his back, trying to control his shaky breathing, trying to keep the tears and hot anger that's coursing through his body at bay.

What's he supposed to do now? Swim back down? Touch the gate and go home? Just go back? He thought- He just wanted-

Seriously, what's he supposed to do?Just find someone else to love and make a life with? There was a spark with Eddie, an instant I know you he'd never felt before. How is he supposed to find that again?

Water splashes down on him, pulling him from his spiral and forcing him to tread water again as he spins in a circle looking for the source.

If it was a fish, it would've had to be a pretty big. But there's nothing, but the expanding circles of disrupted water.

Splash!

He spins to see what splashed the back of his head. And stares.

...Eddie.

What? How? No, but really what? How?

Eddie's grinning at him, fangs on display, and Steve can't come up with a single coherent thing to say.

This is what he wanted, what he hoped for, what he planned for. And now that Eddie's here in front of him, Steve can't for the life of him remember a single thing.

"What're you doing here?"

Eddie tilts his head, "Isn't that supposed to be my line? I live here. What're you doing here?"

Steve feels numb, whether from the cold water or the shock of an alive (vampire?) Eddie, he's not sure. He can't feel his lips.

"I read a book I thought you'd like."

"Yeah? You wanna tell me about it?"

Steve shrugs, legs and arms still treading water.

"Ooook. Well, why don't we swim to shore anyways? You're staring at me like you've seen a ghost. Come on, I'll race you."

Eddie starts swimming away. Steve can't let him just go. He tips forward, forcing his arms and legs to cooperate, and swims after him. He's going to lose the race, but that's ok.

Eddie's swimming ahead of him, wings trailing behind him. Steve is sure he should be freaking out, but his mind is blissfully blank. He just needs to focus on kicking and pulling the water behind him. There's nothing else besides that and Eddie in front of him.

Eddie, that he came to save. Eddie, who's now got fangs and wings and whatever else Steve hasn't seen yet. Eddie, who he'll need to get back down to the gate so they can go home.

But he'll figure all that out next.

Once they reach shore.

Once his brain comes back online.

Once he learns what Eddie is and can do.

Once Eddie shows him how the Upside Down has flourished and healed.

Once they come together.

Once they fall in love.

Once they start planning a life.

After all that, Steve will finally figure it out.

The book Steve saw and thought looked so Eddie: Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

Graphics: @/saradika-graphics

[tevintersnakes]

Out of context bullshit for how my playthrough went.