#I can remember stuff from a while ago but I forget stuff that happens recently

[moisette]

I'm not sure how to feel about Windows of Opportunity. I know it can be annoying to chase someone that has it but I also like using it as Survivor. I know you can memorize spawns - I see Otz talk about it a lot and I try to remember where stuff is but...I struggle a lot with my memory. I used Small Game for totems for a long time and it actually helped me memorize locations ._. I wasn't trying to memorize them - it was a side effect, I guess. I'm hoping maybe Windows will do the same.

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Anybody else have an instance where their shoulder was bent weird while doing something and it felt like it was out of place but you could still use it and popped it right back but now it does that same thing every once in awhile and you’re starting to wonder if you dislocated it and healed it wrong?

[duffyyy911]

𝙰 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔: 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 1 - 𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝

Summary: You are a small time private investigator in the fissures. You have been out of work for weeks, and dues are starting to pile up. Just when you think you're out for the count, a mysterious Vastaya woman enters your office with a high paying job.

Content Warnings: Nothing that I can find besides some minor stuff. Mentions of smoking and drinking, it's a crime noir fic so duh. GenderNeutral!Reader in practice, but keep in mind that I write from a predominantly male perspective so there may be times where the prose caters more towards a male reader. Acquaintance to lovers, extremely slow burn, noir themed fic.

Word Count: 16.7 K

Author's Notes: This is my first real fandom fic that actually includes a canon characters, so please be forgiving with me! I've been on and off writing for the past six years, but I have mostly stuck to my own content until recently. I really like what I've written so far and I think I ought to share it!

Proofread By: @madschiavelique @6selkie

Masterlist: Here

The crisp cold evening air stirred with the wet moldy dinge running off the stone cobble in the neighborhood by the water beneath the shadow of Progress bridge. You could smell it well, the chilly gale whipping off the rolling currents at sea and falling to the streets, mixing with the warm zephyr exhausting out of the grate vents by the cracked sidewalks. You inhale deeply again as you slowly close your eyes, feeling the slow-setting sun’s rays cast their warmth across your forehead before the brisk breeze stole it away. You felt your mind spinning in circles, rotating around and around like a skipping record. You can taste the salt on the mist of the air, the cold providing relief as it flows across your face. You lean back a bit, staggering as you almost fall over on your back. You catch yourself, hooking your hand around a slumped telephone pole, fingers like fish hooks. You swing around the pole once playfully before returning to an upright stance, a childish grin crossing your face as you barely keep your weary eyes open. You had not left the Mourning Bar pub more than thirty minutes ago. You would have considered the feat of walking home impressive for the state you are in, if it wasn’t for the ill churn in your body, flipping between the sickly stirring feeling of deep nausea and the pleasant relief of the open breeze on your face. 

You begin to hum, feeling your voice resonate through your throat and up into your skull as you shift high and low in pitch. You begin to continue your stumble home, putting one foot firmly in front of the other as you slouch-walk down the street. You knew for certain that this was your street, you had to be far worse off than this to forget such a familiar sight. You ambled on, continuing to hum as senseless noise turned into the crooked tune of a song that had returned to your thoughts after being forgotten for a long while. You find it funny, how things just slip by you like that. It happens to anyone, you suppose. One day you can’t forget something, the next day you can’t even remember it. And once you forget, it’s gone until it comes back to you like a desperate old lover. You almost trip over a divot in the cracked concrete where the sidewalk had segmented and one part raised itself over the other. You stumble but keep your balance. You look back at the crack as you continue your musical stroll. You don’t remember what even made that fracture, it was there when you started renting out your place. There weren’t any trees nor roots down by the waterfront to cause it, yet it persisted ever on.

You turn back to the path in front of you as you continue humming the tune, a melody of an old sailor’s song. You dwell on where it came from. You remember it from your childhood when you were young and you used to be taken on the freight ships that your parents captained in and out of the harbors of Piltover and out to the lands beyond the distant waters. You were far too little to be on a ship like that, but not old enough to know that you shouldn’t have. You just enjoyed being out on the open sea, watching the deep black waters roll past the hull and the clear broad skies in the daytime when the weather was just right. You stick your freezing hands into the deep pockets of your patchy tan bomber jacket, grabbing at a warmth that wasn’t there and instead finding the frigid felt lining of the pocket. The sun started to hide behind the curved horizon of the waters beyond the rooftop of the street you walked down, and the warm light began to fade away into a blue dusk bit by bit. To your right was a silver sea salt crusted metal chain of railing, and over it was a steep drop down into the harbor waters below the bridge that connected the slums of Piltover to its gentrified districts. You amble far away from the railing, knowing that walking by it would be pressing your luck, and one minute you could find yourself tripping and going head-first into the icy waters.

You finally stumble before your door, pressing your hand against the wall as you gather yourself. You were pretty sure this was the right one, the red door with the black frame, six doors down from the corner, and two before the edge of the waters at the bend in the road. You slump your head down as you lean against the wall with both hands against the rough porous brick, feeling the churn in your stomach as you convince yourself this is when you finally throw up all that effort you spent drinking in the bar. You dry heave, but all that trails out from your parted lips is a thin worm of spit that splats on the pavement with a quiet click. You push yourself back from the brick, then look up and down at the red door of your apartment for a moment. A gold plaque was nailed into the veneer, inscribed with a thin chain of letters. A title, for your career. ‘Detective Agency’ you silently read out from under the name of your business. You almost laughed as you dawned a shit-eating grin, remembering what world you had clawed yourself into just to survive above ground. If you weren’t blind drunk, you’d probably sob. But right now? It was hilarious, the kind of thing you tried passing yourself off as. You barely got work as is, and what little people asked for your help usually had you making errand runs or chasing after wild geese. 

Below the plaque, an orange envelope was stuck to the paint by a thin strip of sellotape. You tug it off, chipping a fraction of red off the door. You hissed at the sight, cursing yourself for being so abrasive with it. You dig your thumbnail under the lip of the envelope and tear it open, then you pull out its contents. You unravel a folded-up page, straightening it out as you squint to read the page clearly. Rent was overdue, and this was the final warning your landlord was going to offer you. If you don’t have the money by next week, you’ll be back on the streets again. A sour taste took over your mouth, and it wasn’t the sting of the bile that you had coughed up only a minute ago. A strong breeze gusted down your street on the harbor side, and you let it steal the paper and envelope away from your loose grip. You watch the pair silence as the page danced up and over the rooftops before descending out of sight behind the tile peaks. You almost regret doing that, you weren’t a literrer or anything. But the news that you might be back on the street after two years of busting your ass to get a home just put a horrible feeling in your bones. A deep resentment that reminded you that no matter how hard you tried, you’ll never stop being a poor kid from the fissures.

As the light faded to cool darkness and the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the stone brick shelf below the railing roared louder, you notice the dim and disrepaired streetlamps of your neighborhood turn on one by one. Some flickered rapidly or buzzed an awful hum. Some didn’t turn on at all. There was no point telling anybody because you know that no one from across the waters would ever come down here to do anything about it. Your hand slid into your jean’s pocket as your fingers fished for your loop of keys. Your index finger hooked around it, and you slowly brought the loop out of the tight pocket so you wouldn’t twist the metal like you remember doing last time. You looked down at the ring and about two dozen keys that hang around at its bottom. You don’t even remember where half of them go, you’ve just kept every one that you’ve been given. It was like a gentle reminder that you’ve owned and lost so much. Houses, lockers, safes, cash boxes. You always replaced one after another whenever somebody came back into your life to take them away. You finally plucked out the black square-ended one with the three diamond holes in it, you knew for sure that this was the key for the front door. You attempted to slide the neck of the key into the keyhole, but an uncontrollable wobble overcame your legs and you dropped the ring to the scraggly fur of your worn-down doormat. At first, you thought your legs were finally starting to give out, it was about time. But you kept a skeptical leer, as you felt the vibration in the stone beneath you and the low rumble from something you just couldn’t recognize. A loud snapping crack broke through the skies, deafening like thunder striking on the wind. The sound shook the tiles on the rooftops and shuddered the window panes from the second stories above you. You looked about, up your street then down it, yet found nothing out of place. You looked back to the Progress bridge hanging before the fading twilight sky above you, a nervous worry overtaking your mind. Yet it remained still and dark in the night horizon, foreboding but calm in the pitch of the night. 

You rocked back and forth your tailbone, finally building enough momentum to haul yourself up. You clung onto the narrow doorknob to your apartment to help yourself to your feet. You let out a deep, aching sigh and you rub the corners of your stinging eyes as you bend down to scoop up the ring of keys once more. All you felt like doing was sleeping now. The fun of drinking had worn off a while ago when you were praying that you didn’t have to throw up on your shoes. Your thoughts lingered on the rumbling and the loud crack, and you began theorizing what it could be. The best idea that you had was that the pump stations below the surface had finally worn another reactor to give out, and that crack was a manhole being blown sky high. You had only seen it once, when you were thirteen and just made it to the streets of the fissures. It was funny then when you didn’t know that the pump stations kept the fumes out of the lanes. Now it was worrying. 

You pick the black key out of the lot once more, then slid it slowly into the brass deadbolt lock below the handle. You gave a firm turn counterclockwise, feeling the bolt move and finally loosen its grip on the door. You stared intently at the black coated doorknob, working up the courage to twist it and walk in. You always hated opening your door to see your dark house when you got home. You were grown now, but the child within your heart was always fearful of the monsters that liked to lurk in the dark shadows of the corners. The ones that fled in an instant when you flipped on the kitchen light and turned the radio on with the volume up high. Or maybe they weren’t there. Maybe that was what killed you the most. Because even if they were monsters, they were some kind of company. And maybe the real thing you were scared of was coming back to the sad hovel you lived in and knowing that there was nobody there. No one to wait up for you, or to ask how you were doing. Or to already have the lights on and the radio turned up to the hum of the news channel. It was just empty.

You twist the knob to the door and push it in with a soft shove. Before the dim glow of the streetlamps outside could cast its reach fully into your dark living room, your hand had already hung your keyring on the hook by the door and flipped the light switch up below it. The room lights came on in a flash, bright but faded from age and dust collecting in their covers on the ceiling. With the forthcoming light, you were reminded of the simplicity of the apartment you were renting. Two rooms were all you got and counted your lucky stars that you got that at all. The main room was deep and wide, painted with a sickly cream coat. It was an open living room connected to a small outlet kitchen in the top corner to your immediate left, beyond the light switch. The kitchen came with a fridge and a stove, two things that were all but luxury items in your mind before you had moved in. The state of the pale countertops was more to wish for, but you felt glee when your investigations of them did not reveal any nests of insects or infestations of termites. 

They were just old, probably far older than you, and needed a new coat of paint. Beyond the cramped corner of the kitchen was the rest of the room. It was once void of any furniture for a long time, but fishing through the trash heaps at the foot of Piltover’s richer districts rewarded you with things to fill the space. You look at your yellow striped sofa, a small thing but it took a whole day for you to lug across town on your back and fit through your front door. You could still smell the rich scent of trash water dripping off it had you lugged it up your street, having to hose it down and let it dry before you took it inside. Before, it was a short coffee table with a broken leg. It was held up straight by a pile of self help books that you had found in a cardboard box in the alley out back. The two pieces faced the empty blank wall to your right, void of any fixtures or frames. Beyond them was your office. A long blocky dark spruce desk you had bought from a flea market down in the fissures sat lonesome in the room. You had to ask for a lot of favors from people to help you lug it up onto the trolleys that ran back to the surface, but a nice and incredibly large bartender gave you a helping hand for free when he saw you shove it inch by inch past his pub and up the lanes. The desk sat before a tall paneled window with a chipped low sill, beyond that was a single-story drop down to the alley behind the apartment block, as the road that wrapped around the building went down in elevation until it was dangerously close to touching the water. On occasions, in bad storms, the entire alley would flood over from the tide and wash itself clean, stealing the trash and the filth and the vermin and taking it all out to sea to be buried below the waves.

Behind the desk itself was an array of filing cabinets, those you got along with the house as a welcome gift from an associate of yours. You had solved the case of who was stealing out of his cash register from his fish market stand. Which had turned out not to be his only employee, but her jobless boyfriend who hung about when he was off hours. Of course back then you did jobs for free just to earn some standing. Now you could barely turn down anything that paid. To the right of the cabinets, along the wall the sofa faced, was a tall bookshelf. It held five separate and broad shelves. Each shelf carried an array of things. One had a lineup of books varying in size and shape, mostly on psychology or theater. None of which you had read yet. You never got the time to actually sit down with a book, and when you did it usually put you to sleep right away. 

Another shelf had an array of odd things you found while dumpster diving. A broken pocket watch, an antique glass doll, a black beret with an unidentifiable insignia sewed into it, and a large quantity of shiny chunks of metal that you were convinced held some kind of value. If only you knew a guy who could check, but you had yet to get around to it. The shelf above was your favorite. Every once in a while, when you got a big payout and had cash to spare after paying rent, you’d buy a model ship from a shmancy crafts shop in Piltover’s upper district. You had to be quick when buying it, as if you lingered too long people would give you odd looks as if you didn’t belong. Surely because you didn’t. But you couldn’t find anywhere in the fissures that sold model kits with all of its pieces accounted for. Your favorite was your crown piece, a model of an elongated diesel freighter that looked a lot like the one your parents sailed when you were younger. But you could barely remember those days, too far gone and too distant in your mind. Sometimes you wondered if you could even remember their faces. Sometimes you could, most of the time they blurred in your mind’s eye.

You turn about from the sight of your lonesome apartment and return to face the door. You shut it behind you, pressing it firmly until the old frame shifted back into place and you could hear a faint click through the wood as its latch entered its hole. Your hand reached up and twisted the switch to the first deadbolt below the knob, feeling the lock shift and click into place. You reach up above the knob to the second deadbolt, mimicking the same again. Two locks were the minimum for the slums, and even still you didn’t feel safe. At any moment you were expecting a group of vagrants to slink up your street and start kicking doors in. It had happened before down in the fissures and the memory of being stuck up at knifepoint for everything you had stirred a bad tenseness in your muscles. 

You distract yourself by looking at your kitchen, the dilapidated thing. You considered making some kind of food to quell the nausea stirring in your stomach, but two bad feelings convinced you otherwise; First, the worry that you’d just throw it all back up and that once you lie down you want to stay down until morning, that you didn’t want rush between bathroom and bed just to make sure you don’t puke on your only good pair of sheets. The second was like the first, that you were far too drunk to cook anything safely now. Your eyes trail down to the faint mark of a burn across the corner of your hand, running from the back and over your thumb. You couldn’t even remember if that one was on accident, or on purpose. All you remember was snapping back to reality as you found it brushing the hot twisted element on the old stove. 

You trudge past the kitchen, kicking off your old work boots by the bottom of the fridge. You take off your thick patchwork coat one arm at a time, one of the sleeves hobbled together with cheap thread and segments of burlap, and toss it on the counter by the stove. You head towards your door, flush with the wall between the end of the kitchen tile and the corner where your desk sat solemnly. You open the door, pushing the thin handle down and pulling it towards you. You flip on the lights in an instant as you had before, casting away the darkness and the shadows. The light flashed on with a low hum and buzz as you looked about the sorry state of the room. It was far worse off than the living room that you were sourly reminded of. A single mattress lay lonesome on the floor against the middle point of the wall below the windowsill. You hadn’t had the money to afford the frame, nor did you ever come across one while rooting through the trash heaps. You felt genuinely lucky that you could have afforded a set of clean sheets and a cover for it, you were far too used to sleeping on raw dirty mattresses you found in the alleys down in the lanes. This one was dry too, and void of mold or bugs or anything that you forced yourself to get used to after years of such an environment. Besides your bed was a large leather suitcase, opened and lying still by the foot. It was the only kind of wardrobe you had, but this one you bought with your own money instead of taking. You saw it in the display window of a junk store on the Entresol level, and you couldn’t convince yourself to walk away without heading in and asking for the price. In the case sat your only other set of clean clothes besides the ones you were wearing at the moment. You made a mental note that you had to head to the closest laundromat tomorrow to clean them once you’ve changed. All you wanted to do now was sleep, and the mattress before you looked so inviting. You could feel the call of sleep wash over you, the exhaustion in your bones, and your eyelids hanging heavily as they beckoned to close. 

You switch on an old metal standing fan by the door, listening to its awful squeak as it slowly jerks to life and begins nodding back and forth. Your apartment hadn’t any central heating, and you couldn’t risk just leaving the alley window open, so this was the best you were going to get for airflow. You raise your hand to the light switch, flipping it back down with your thumb as you watch the darkness return. The backlight of somebody’s home across the back alley shone through the window and cast itself in a straight line across your mattress. You walk forward, feeling the hardwood under the soft cover of your socks. You survived another day, and you would congratulate yourself for it if it wasn’t for the heavy call of sleep. You let your body lean forward and you fall into the dense mattress, closing your eyes for the night. You let out a deep sigh, smelling the faint aroma of washed linen on your pillowcase and the soft sheet against your cheek. Your head continued to spin around and around, stopping you from falling into slumber. You stick out your foot from the edge of the mattress and press the tips of your toes to the hardwood, and the spinning begins to die down. Another day survived.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You jerk awake from your intense dream, it leaves your mind in a dash as you come to on your back. The memory of it fading as you rub your crusted eyes and look about at the blank popcorn ceiling of your room. You recall something about seagulls, and that you were standing somewhere where you could hear the roar of the ocean. Beyond that, you lose any semblance of what the dream could be. Your head reels from the previous night as the feeling of tightness flushes the muscles in your face. Your jaw aches after hours of clenching it in your sleep, and you suck your teeth at the pain. Your temples throb in pulsating waves of discomfort. Your mouth feels drier than it has been in a very long time, your tongue rubbing against the roof of your mouth like sandpaper. You bend your head back and look up to the window above you. The puffy clouds of midday floated past in the broad blue sky from above the outlet of the alley, whisking a sense of ease into your aching mind. You bring your left arm up and check the time on your wristwatch, a quarter past ten in the morning. You let out a woeful groan and tossed the pillow from under your head to the still squealing standing fan. You had slept all of the morning away, and now it was nearing midday. You only had so much time left to go fish for jobs and to run your errands before night invited itself back to your life. You were never a nocturnal kind of person, not that you resented the night at all. It was just the bad memories, the fear, and the emptiness that came with sundown that you disdained. Living in the fissures had left an impactful lack of sunlight in your life, and you were reluctant to return to it even on the surface. You preferred to stay inside instead of ambling about a city that slept peacefully. 

You sit yourself up as you gather your bearings from your groggy state. You rub your eyes once more, pressing the tips of your index finger and thumb into the corners of your eyes and you sigh deeply again. To distract yourself from the headache, you list things you had to do today. Most of which included your daily errands and the rounds you had to make to all of your associates in the fissures. You drag yourself up from your mattress and enter your bathroom through the door across from the edge of it. You undress and spend a good thirty minutes just standing in the shower, feeling the warm water flow over your skin and body as you stare at your feet where it collected before running down the drain. The rent was all that was on your mind. The rent, the rent, the rent. You had no idea how you were going to pay due. Even if you managed to get a case, it would probably be a pittance and more work than it was worth. You could always sell some of your things, you were a regular at a pawn shop down in the fissures. You twist the handles to the valves closed and step out of the shower. You dry yourself off in the steam of the closed bathroom, then gather your dirty clothes. You spend a long time dressing piece by piece as you take the clean garments from your suitcase and replace them with the ones you had taken off. You slowly button up your shirt, your eyes drifting to the space before you as your thoughts run through a cacophony of worries. You pull on a fresh pair of jeans, cinching the leather belt you had taken from a trashcan months ago. What were you going to do about the rent?

You amble into your kitchen, picking up the workboots you kicked off the previous night and slipping them onto your feet one at a time after you took a seat on your yellow sofa. You rise from your seat and trudge back to the kitchen. Your hand reaches towards the portable radio that sat next to the sink, twisting the left knob until you could hear the familiar fuzz of the tuning of the channels. You tune it to the city news station, one of the only signals you got from across the bridge. It was the only time you could get the latest updates about the goings-on in the upper districts of Piltover. The newscaster read out the latest sports scores from the week, his voice turning to a blank hum in your ears as you open the door to your fridge to fish for some food. All that was in there was two eggs left in an open carton and a single tomato. Breakfast of champions, you think to yourself. You try to stay optimistic, after all, it could have been nothing. It could have been a lot worse, and you’ve certainly forced yourself to eat a lot worse before. You open the half-broken door to the kitchen cabinet above the stove and retrieve a faded old frying pan. You pull out the drawer to one of the lower cabinets, pulling out a crooked fork as you crack one egg at a time into the frying pan, throwing the empty shells into the trash bin by the frame of the front door. You twist the knob to the stove’s element on, then scramble the yokes as it slowly rises to a hot temperature.

“In other news.” The announcer on the radio cleared their throat. “We here at the station regret to inform the public of an unfortunate event.” He continued. 

You watch the eggs slowly begin to sizzle on the face of the pan, not really paying attention at all but grateful for the company of the radio.

“Last night, an attack was committed against the council hall of Piltover. An unknown explosive device was detonated within the chambers in the middle of an emergency meeting of the council.” Your eyes snap to the radio as you inhale deeply, holding your breath. You quickly reach for the volume knob, swiveling it and raising the amplification. “Councilors Hoskel, Bolbok, and Kiramman were all killed in the ensuing blast, while two others are left with grave injuries.” The announcer continued reading. “Police authorities have not released a statement on who was behind the attack, but a local captain who was one of the first to arrive at the scene gave a statement. It is unconfirmed, but the culprits are highly likely to be members of a large chem gang that resides within the fissures. If anyone has any information about the attack or knowledge of who perpetrated it, they are encouraged to share it with the authorities.”

You finally let go of the breath you had been holding in for what seemed like hours, your chest rising then falling as you took your hand off the volume knob. You press the back of your palms against the edge of the kitchen counter as you hang your head low. You thought you were finally away from all of this, the sour news of more people dying, the tragedy of senseless killing and destruction. It was the reason why you struggled so hard to live above ground. That even though you still resided in slums, you were at least safe under the shadow of the city that stood above you. But you can never really escape from things like that. No matter where you run, you see the thin husk of death lurk around every corner and stalk every street. The announcer of the news transitions away to a hit piece interview with a local up-and-comer in the academy of Piltover. They had been replaying the thing for the past week, and your mind slowly tunes it out as your thoughts race ever on. The endless stream of worry flowing through your mind is snapped away as you hear the rapping knock of knuckles against your front door. You look over, blinking repetitiously as you find your bearings once more. You are hesitant to answer it, taking a moment to stare at the red paint as the person on the other side knocks once more.

You hobble towards the door, resting your hand on the knob as you mull the decision over. It could be someone you definitely don’t want to see, that was a possibility. A deep churn works its way into your gut as the visions of your landlord coming to evict you run through your thoughts. The knock repeated itself once more, and you were pulled back again. You twist the knob slowly, then pull the door towards you as it opens with a creak. You blink rapidly once more, the brightness of the clear day outside stabbing at your retinas. You looked about, but there was nobody in front of you. Just the sight of the waters below the bridge reflecting the sunny sky off its surface. You stick your head out the door and look right up your street as it slowly rises up to the upper part of the slums. Still nobody.

“Down here.” A soft voice chirped below your chin. Your eyes snap down, getting a full view of the one who knocked. A young man, no older than thirteen, stood obliviously at the foot of the step to the door, staring up at you. He wore a cheap dusty green chore jacket that bore scrappy holes in its chest where pockets had been ripped out. The young man stared up at you from beneath a grey checkered press cap, strands of black hair inching out from beneath it and down his cheeks. He slung a dark brown satchel bag over his shoulder, its strap running around his neck and down to each end of the bag. The young man blinked rapidly, mimicking you with an open smile. He stared up at you with a sparkle in his glassy green eyes. He reached down into his bag, retrieving a handful of envelopes in his lean hands before raising them up at you in an innocent gesture.

“Good day today, detective?” He chirped again.

“Hey, Lyric.” You exhale with a sigh, a small smirk darting across your lips as you take the stack of envelopes from the chipper boy’s hand. He was quite the silly lad, one that never lost his optimism. You were kind of grateful to see him, he hadn’t been by to deliver your mail from your P.O. box for a week and you were genuinely starting to worry if he was okay.

“You’ve got a letter from that stranger again.” He pointed to the envelopes as you flipped through the stack. Most of it was junk mail, but the lad was correct in his statement. The final one at the bottom of the stack was yet another letter sent from the odd address that usually accompanied the envelope. You had no idea who the person writing to you was, but every letter you received from them was a collection of a foreboding invitation to meet with them. They always explained that you had something that belonged to them and that they would pay handsomely for it back. But you never wrote back, as you’ve never owed anyone anything that you hadn’t paid in full as soon as you could. Besides the rent. You always figured it was a scam, and that if you ever went to the address marked on the letter, you’d be robbed for all your worth.

“You’ve gotta stop running my letters, kid.” You break the news to the young man, leaning your elbow against the door frame.

“But why?” Lyric slumped his head to his shoulder inquisitively, raising his thick eyebrow.

“Because it’s not safe for you to be going back and forth between the fissures and the surface. One of these days you’re going to disappear, then what would I do, huh?”

“I’ve got to earn money somehow. Just like you.” Lyric proudly stated. He always considered himself to be your soon-to-be protege, yet it was just a pipe dream. If he knew about some of the things you had to do just to make ends meet, he’d probably change his mind.

“But I don’t pay you.” You lean back and toss the stack of envelopes into the waste bin by the door.

“But other people do.” He stuck his finger up, wagging it slightly. “You’re not my only stop, you know. I just deliver yours for free, I know you need the charity.”

“Oh do I, now? You little runt.” You chortled at the boy’s wit. You swipe his press cap off with one hand, then ruffle his chin-length black hair with the other. “Hey, at least one of us is making a living.” You put the cap back onto the giggling boy, who was trying to swipe your hands away.

“I live out here just like you.” Lyric composed himself, wiping a whimsical tear from his eye that came out from his bodacious laugh. “But if you insist on paying me.” He raised his open hand up, wiggling his fingers for you to place a coin on it. His wild smile faded as his eyes drifted to the space behind you. You paused, studying his distracted gaze as the smell of something smoking wafted toward your nose. “Hey, I think your kitchen is on fire.” He pointed. 

You turn over your shoulder, watching a funnel of black smoke rise from the overheated pan as your eggs begin to burn over. “Shit.” You huff, then turn to close the door.

“But, my payment!” Lyric protested with a stomp, realizing what was to come next.

“Go home and sleep, Lyric. I’ll see you later.” You nearly squealed out as you quickly shut the door in his face. 

You dash back over to the stove on the tips of your toes, twisting the knob to the burner off and taking the pan off the element. With your free hand, you wafted the pungent smoke away from your face, spreading it across the room. You let out a low groan as you prod the black-charred eggs with the fork you had taken from the cabinet. You could still eat them, you’ve stomached far worse. But you just couldn’t convince yourself to do it. You’d genuinely rather starve, you’ve come too far to be doing stuff like that. You take the pan to the bin and watch as the eggs slide off and fall to the bottom. You bring the pan back over to the sink and run cold water over it, listening to the hissing sizzle. The true breakfast of champions is composed of nothing, you tell yourself. You switch off the radio, watching as its lights fade and return to slumber. 

Accepting the loss of your breakfast and appetite, you retreat towards your desk. You fall heavily into the leather studded swivel chair, another claim from the heap. You turn about and scoot yourself into the nook of the desk, then look at what sat before you. In front of you was an old rusted typewriter. It was missing a few keys when you got it, but you quickly jerry rigged replacements from an old coat hanger, and they worked just as well. You glance at your desk lamp and reach forward, turning it on at the base. You take a deep breath in, glancing at the door that stood far across the room from you, then to your empty desk.

You scooted back from the desk and opened the thin drawer below the center, pushing a packet of cigarettes and a flip lighter to the side as you retrieved your brown leather notebook and a half-chewed pencil from its barren bottom. You flip the book open to a blank page, then scribble the tip of the pencil against the paper to get the graphite sharper. You let your hand guide the pencil as you begin sketching out a scene, opting for a bit of creativity before you hit the streets. You doodle out a portrait of a sailing ship gliding across the scribbly face of an ocean, its jagged masts hanging up sails that caught the swirling wind. You also added a little doodle of a thick-coated cat licking at its paws in the bottom corner, you weren’t sure why but you supposed the cat could be an aquatic feline. You place the book back down and stare at the drawing for a while, letting the pencil rest between your fingers. After a moment, another knock raps up your door. You look past the book and to it from across the way. You lean back in your desk chair pensively, listening to the squeak of the dry hinge. The knock repeats itself, though not in any manner like the first two when you were standing in the kitchen.

“Go away, Lyric.” You call out to the door, yet no response is given back. You mindlessly chew on the wood of the pencil in your hand as you keep a pensive furrow in your brow. The knock repeats. “Kid, just beat it!” You call out louder, maybe he can’t hear you from all the way back here. Still no response, only the repeat of the knock.

“If this is about the rent, I’m working on it!” You call out as you finally sit up and lean forward against the edge of the desk. You were really hoping your landlord wasn’t going to come around today, especially since she left the note on your door only last night. Still no response, and still the repeating of the knock. “Oh my- Just come in, the door’s unlocked!” You holler, then sink back into your seat lazily in defeat. “If you’re here to rob me, just make it quick.” You mutter.

The knob twists and the door is pushed forth with a gentle shove. The light from the day casted itself heavily into the room, masking the silhouette standing at the other side of the room. You squint to see better, but the change in light once more mars your eyes with a stinging pierce. “What do you want?” You cast your hand in front of your eyes, blocking the harsh light. The silhouette steps forward from the outside and into your room, slowly and carefully shutting the door behind them. You pinch the corners of your eyes again, your headache rearing its ugly existence back into the forefront.

“Do you mind if I smoke in here?” A raspy, but feminine voice calls out to you as you rub the sting from your eyes.

“Go ahead.” You groan. “It’s not like I’m keeping the deposit.” You bring your hand down from your face, getting a full look at the stranger who had waltzed into your office.

A tall Vastaya woman stood before you from your slouch in your swivel chair. She wrapped herself in a terrifically tall red coat, its extremely puffed fur collar curling around snugly behind her head and partially blocking the view of her pale white freckled face. Her head was wrapped in a pinkish-red thin headscarf that criss-crossed over her scalp before winding down around the base of her neck and disappearing under her coat. Strands of deep brown hair poked out from under the wrap, which was the only thing to escape it besides her incredibly long pointed feline ears that stuck out from two slits at the top. She pinned a skinny black bakelite cigarette holder between her slender middle and index fingers, holding it incredibly still as she lit the end of a cigarette with a scratch lighter before bringing the funnel to her red lips and puffing it to get a steady burn flowing in the tobacco. 

“You’re the detective advertised on the door, correct?” She croaked. Her slim amber eyes watched you from beyond the fuzz of her fur coat as she put one arm across her waist to keep a hold on the breakpoint, while the other continued to nonchalantly wield the cigarette stick.

“Technically, I’m a private investigator. You actually need a license to be called a detective. I got the plaque before I realized that.” You admit with a sigh as your nails scratch an itch on your chin. You found the appearance of the woman odd, but not strange. She kind of reminded you of the fortune tellers you were taken to whenever your family had stopped in the ports of Demacia, which was whenever they held a circus-like festival that pulled in strangers and foreigners from all across the continents. Your eyes drifted down from her face, falling to the floor where you noticed her bare digitigrade legs poke out from under the flared hem, an even odder sight but then again you weren’t a sociable enough person to know many Vastaya to get used to it.

You put away your notebook, shoving it back into the drawer along with the pencil. Your eyes flick back up to the woman, who in turn was glancing about the state of your apartment. Before you could hear any semblance of a remark about it, you cleared your throat firmly. She looked back at you in silence, your eyes meeting hers as your hand slowly shut the drawer. “Is there anything I can help you with?” You speak up.

“Yeah.” The woman huffed. Her eyes dart across your desk as you wonder what for, but you catch on that she was looking for somewhere to ash her cigarette. You reach down into the side bottom drawer of your desk and retrieve a crystal glass ashtray, and you place the heavy thing on the desk with a thud before pushing it to the far right corner where she stands. “You mentioned your rent.” She remarked, then brought her hand down to flick the cigarette at the crystal bowl. “Have you ever thought about downsizing?”

“Yeah.” You scoff, stifling an insulted chuckle. “There’s a box out in the alley, but I think somebody’s taken it already. They’ll be gone when the tide comes in, though.” You stick a thumb over your shoulder at the window behind your chair. You watch the woman take a long drag of her cigarette again, then exhale the smoke out through her narrow nose as ghostly wisps of it trail up past the faint grey splattered smudges on her stark white face. You lean back again in your chair and fold the fingers of your hands over one another as you rest them on your lap. You waited for her to go on, but her eyes were beginning to slyly peek around your apartment again. “Before you even continue,” you raise your hand up. “Is this a paying job, or are you just looking for a handout?”

The woman’s narrow amber eyes snap back to you for a final time, a faint trail of disgust curling across the ridge of her nose. “Does it look like I need a handout?” She remarked coarsely with a sneer and a nod, lowering her hand again as she flicked her cigarette at the ashtray once more. “You’re the one advertising.”

“Right.” You may have been a bit irritable because of your headache, and a bit too quick on the draw when it came to remarks. You just simply did not like a snooping eye, you never took judgment on the chin well. “Sorry, it’s just been a while since I’ve had real work. What can I do for you?”

The woman exhaled solemnly through her nose, taking the cigarette from its holder and crumbling what was left of it in the ashtray. “I suppose I’m sorry too, I’m in a sour mood.”

“I take it that’s why you’re here?” You nod, watching her slender fingers smear the butt into the glass bowl.

“That would be correct.” She paused. “I assume your business has a code of confidentiality, detective…?” She lingered on the end of her sentence, queueing you to tell her your name.

“Just detective.” You correct her. You were not the kind of person to go sharing your name, especially to strangers. Hell, even the clients you’ve worked with for years didn’t really know your name. Just where to find you. “And yes, anything you tell me is confidential. But I’m not exactly on the payroll yet, am I?”

“That can change.” She shrugged. Her gaze flicked down to the ashtray, then to you. Then subtly to the cigarette holder still pursed between her fingers. You got the cue and leaned forward to root around in your desk once more. You brought out the pack of cigarettes you had brushed aside before and retrieved one from the box, offering it over to her by the end. “What are your rates?” She inquired, lighting your gift with the same scratch lighter she used before.

“Rates? Well, hourly-”

“It's a commission.” She cut you off. “I don't know how long this will take, so I’ll pay you upfront.”

“What’s the job then?” You cock an eyebrow, genuinely interested to see where any of this was going. You’ve had stranger people come in and hold odder conversations with you for a job than this. But they were all the shady type, masking some kind of criminal intent or weird perversion of real intrigue. Not her, though. She seemed like the type of person who puts caution first, and then followed it up with heavy hitting statements.

“Confidentiality, right?”

“Confidentiality.” You repeat. “Scouts honor, cross my heart so on and so forth.” You stick up two of your fingers from a closed fist in jest while the other dashed a criss cross over your chest with your index finger.

“I own a place down in the lanes that houses my business.” She started off before taking a drag of her freshly lit cigarette. “I won’t go into excruciating detail, but I work as a therapist.”

“Therapist? Like a quack?” You comment. She didn’t seem like the doctorate degree type.

“A physical therapist.” She flicked her cigarette at the ashtray habitually. “I help people using an experimental therapy involving diluted shimmer. Last night while I was out for a walk, I came back to find that my home had been broken into. And what little shimmer I owned had been stolen.”

“If it’s a shimmer issue, you need to go talk to Silco about it. I’m hands off when it comes to chems.” You wave your hand dismissively. Last time you looked into a case about a shimmer issue, some of the local cronies belonging to Silco’s gang gave you a rough time. You almost didn’t make it home if it wasn’t for your quick tongue and knack for bullshitting. You vowed to never step on his toes again, for your sake if not for the safety of your associates.

“Silco’s dead.” The woman muttered before taking another long, slow drag of the cigarette like she got paid by the hit. Her eyelids flared at the befuddled look on your face, a smirk working across her pursed lips as she inhaled. As if you were the only jackass who hadn’t heard about it yet.

“What?” You splutter, choking on your saliva as you jerk up from your seat. You cough roughly, taking a moment to clear your throat before speaking. “And how exactly do you know that?”

“I know a guy.” She shrugged. “Who knows a guy, who knows a guy.” Her index finger bounced between spaces in the air. “The point is that I wouldn’t be asking you if I could still go to Silco.”

“Nine hundred.” You firmly state. “Upfront, in cash. That’s the only offer you’re getting.” You had no way to confirm if the information was true, but you also had to be a complete idiot to pass up a job like this if she was right. Your usual commission price was half of that sum, but the risk required a doubling. Not that she’d even know, anyhow.

“Done.” The woman shrugged her fur-covered shoulders. “Do you take cheques?” Her hand drifted down to the large pocket of her greatcoat, presumably going for her book.

“I said cash-” You paused. “How do you have a bank account? I thought you said you lived in the fissures?”

“I-” She started off. “Know a guy who knows a guy, I get it.” You interrupt her back. “Let me write down my hours for you.” You go to your drawers for hopefully a final time to retrieve a sheet of paper from your notebook.

“For that price?” The woman scoffed, then put out the second cigarette like she did with the last. “You’re starting now, I’ll take you there.”

“Fine.” You threw your hands up, open-palmed in defeat. “Let me get my coat and lock up, at least.” You rose from your chair and walked about your desk to your open kitchen, picking your tattered jacket off of the countersill and tugging it on sleeve by sleeve. The woman watched you in silence from the same spot she had been standing in the whole conversation, in front of your desk. “I’d like to warn you beforehand that I can find out who took your shimmer, but I can’t do much to actually get it back. I’m an investigator, not the police.”

“No, I understand.” She mumbled from her spot as you glimpsed back at her from over your shoulder. She slid her cigarette holder into the deep pocket of her overcoat in silence, hiding it away as if it never existed at all.

“What’s your name, by the way?” You inquire. You do up the mismatched buttons on your coat, making sure it was firmly around you before you braved the cold air outside. The sun may be out, but the gales never calmed.

“I thought we weren’t on a first name basis?” The woman raised an eyebrow to the question. Her fingernails slid across the veneer of the wood of your desk, idly trailing.

“I’ve got to put something in my files, y’know.” You nod back to your row of cabinets. To be truthful, half of the shelves were completely empty. You tend to lose old case files more than you could lose bad memories. 

“It’s Lest.” The woman mumbled, then began to walk back towards the door with a carefree stride. “Just Lest.”

“Well, ‘just Lest’, you better have that money when we get to your place. I’ll start working once it’s in my pocket.” You straighten the collar of your coat, then stride towards the door to join her.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your walk with the woman through the streets of the lower harbor slums was spent in pure silence. You ambled down the sidewalk with your hands stuck snugly in the pockets of your coat as you trailed Lest, who seemed to insist on walking a few feet ahead of you. You were in no rush to get to your destination, you figure a burgled house will still remain a burgled house no matter the manner you arrive. Lest didn’t seem to walk in a hurry either, sauntering as she kept her coat closed with a tight grip, the midday gales burrowing their way through the narrow thoroughfares and whipping up the red parted tails of the vent slit. You watched her walk with a methodical cadence as the pair of you strolled past street corners where people would gather to set up makeshift stalls and advertise their used junk, a common way to rack up money for the poverty-stricken citizens of the slums. Your gaze swiveled from the woman in front of you to the tops of the tall brick apartment complexes that were packed tightly into each lane, squeezed so close together they began to blend into big batches of analogous buildings that were only divided by a slim, lonely alley every block or two. 

You could see people through the reflection of the blue sky on the glass of the windows from on high. Families, vagrants, the elderly, and the impoverished, all just trying to make do with their lives that were domineered by the prospering city towering above them from over the river. Heading deeper into the slums, the dirt-crusted but relatively clean sidewalks of the harborside slowly shifted into trash-littered and asphalt shattered shells of what once was a nice neighborhood. You listen to the crunch of glass beneath your boots as you tread the street, your foot kicking up a loose can or rock that blew in your way from the whipping wind. Less people traversed the inner streets, knowing the sad reality that only the truly dirty souls inhabit a place like this. Lone scabby-skinned junkies loitering on the corner would occasionally spy the two of you heading their direction, before slinking across the road and avoiding any kind of interaction.

You finally come upon the rectangular shadow of a stone-brick building that stood taller than the rest. The husks and tumbled walls of what used to be a post office and an affordable clothing store stood to the left and right of the narrow building. Its flat rooftop reached high up by about a few stories, staring down at you in silent disdain. The chipped windows were narrower, not for housing but simply for light, and sat in neat rows between each floor. A stone set of three steps, guarded by a rusted and bent railing, led up to a set of aluminum double doors while a shallow tin overhang creaked above them. The right side door stood tall and flush against its hinges, while the left barely clung onto its hook as it slumped down and dared to fall flat and slide down the steps. Above the tin overhang hung a faded painted wood sign, reading out the name of a long since bankrupt textile business. You stop by the curb and watch Lest ascend the steps one leg at a time, gently brushing her fingertips over the rust of the railing. You knew this building all too well. It wasn’t a frequented destination by the people who lived in the slums, but it was a well known place that housed one of the few passageways that lead down into the depths of the fissures. Smugglers used to frequent it before a group of enforcers showed up a few years ago and rounded some of them up, hauling them off to who knows where, never to be seen again. The textile factory had a deep and wide basement to store the dozens of fabrics it once produced in its heyday. When the place was abandoned and the owners moved out, a group of kids broke into the lot to trash what was left behind. They soon discovered that a back wall to the cellar had collapsed in on itself and revealed a narrow passageway that descended far down into the fissures and spat the brave and daring out onto the streets of the Jade District on the Entresol level. That was not the place you were eager to visit, as you knew the kind of business and intrigue that traversed it. Lest glanced over her shoulder, finally noticing that you had stopped following her. She turned about slyly, giving you a confused but muted look.

“This way.” She flicked her fingers to the door with a twitch in her hand and a subtle wriggle in her nose like you were wasting her time.

“No, I know.” You huff, taking a glance up and then back down the street. “You sure you want to head that way, though? The descender to the lanes is just a few blocks away, over on Drop street.” You motioned to your right, taking your hand out of your jacket pocket with an open palm.

“This way is quicker.”

“Quicker?” You shrugged. “That’s the way to Jade, I thought we were going to the main.”

“I live in Jade, so we’re going to Jade. You’re not one to faint at an uncomfortable sight, are you?” She stated in a monotone voice. You could only conclude that you were pretty sure that was an attempt at teasing.

“Afraid?” You scoff, scratching the bridge of your nose with your right and middle fingers. You stick your hand back into your coat pocket, shrugging the jacket back up as it begins to shift off your shoulders. “No, I’m not afraid of anything down there. I just would have liked to know where we were going beforehand, I could have done with a warning.”

“Nobody gets the leisure of a warning down there.” Lest leaned back against the railing, folding one arm over the other. A small twitch worked its way up her right ear, zipping off the pointed tip with a quick wiggle. “Why? Do you owe someone money or something?”

You blurt a sarcastic chuckle, the comic of the statement amusing you. “I’m owed more money down there than the few debts I have. Neither of which are going to be collected, I assure you that.” You take your left hand out of your pocket, the cool day air whipping at your skin. You idly play with one of the buttons on your coat as you mull the decision over. You hum, then slide your tongue across the front of your teeth as you look about at the space in front of you. Going down the tram shafts would take longer, you’d have to make a massive detour across the gap just to find the appropriate entrance to the Jade District. And when you did, there would most likely be some kind of toll enforced by one of the vagrants that called the area home. She was right, the passageway would be quicker. But you still weren’t keen on going down to that level. The skipping reminder of the fact you had bills to pay convinced you otherwise, however. You genuinely could not turn this job down, no matter the discomfort. “Fine.” You yield, striding forward and up the steps. You pull the standing door open with difficulty, struggling against the rusted hinges. You hold it open for your benefactor, who passes you without any thanks.

You find the passageway in due time after descending a set of wood board stairs into the cellar. The back wall was indeed toppled, spilling dusty slate stones across the dirty cement floors. The passage way was more of a slim and terribly dark cavern hall that descended further than you could see. Just a steep slit in the earth that trailed its way into your imagination, emitting a faint whistle as air flowed freely through it. You look back to Lest, who shrugged her covered shoulder and nodded her pointed nose at the descent. You were heading in first.

“You still got that lighter?” You raised your eyebrow to her. Her hand fished into her coat pocket and retrieved her iconic scratch lighter, a silver thin rectangle segmented into two sliding pieces that emitted a small flame when you push one side away from the other. You take the lighter as she passed it to you, her grip lingering on it as you pluck it from her pursed painted nails. You gave the lighter a few flicks, struggling to get the flame going as you dart your eyes between it and Lest. The flame finally stood steady, and you turned about, raising the lighter to the darkness. You didn’t really want to go first, especially because the seemingly more stubborn of the two of you was walking in the back. If you had to back up, there’d be no room to squeeze past her in the narrow passage. You weigh the other hand, that you were also the bigger one, and you’d feel awfully guilty having to ditch her if something unpleasant came back up in your direction. 

You sighed deeply, then stepped forward into the darkness and down the rocky floors. The track was so narrow that the stony walls of the passage bumped against your shoulders every few steps. You felt like a pinball at this point, and the ending to the descent was nowhere in sight. You travelled deeper and deeper without exchanging a word with Lest, it looked like small talk was still off the table and you weren’t about to embarass yourself by trying. Not until you could conduct the investigation, at least. The cool flow of fresh air began to twist into a pungent moldy stench as you tread, a nauseating reminder of how bad the oxygen was down in the fissure. You reckoned that besides the pump stations, little offshoots like this were the only filter to the stuffy stench collecting beneath the surface of the earth. You didn’t glance over your shoulder to check if Lest was following after, if she wasn’t then you were already doomed when you entered the tunnel. You had no reason to not trust her, but then again you had no reason for trust at all. The pursuit of money has lead you to places you wouldn’t even go with a gun, this was no exception. 

The stench of the air grew stronger, and you couldn’t help not using your free hand to yank the collar of your jacket up and cover your nose. You were once used to it, but plenty of days on the topside made you forget just how awful it was. A smell like sour milk and rotten eggs mixed with manure, sickening to the bone. As you descended, the faint outline of an opening etched its way into view. First, as small as a pin in the distance, but it grew larger in your sight by every step. You descended the last few yards, clinging onto the rock edge of the walls as the path got steeper and steeper. The stone felt wet and moist, slippery like algae. You pulled your hand back, accepting that you’d rather risk falling and busting your ass over having to touch the unidentifable ooze any longer. The rock path turned to loose sediment, and your boots began to slide a bit as you finally reach the exit to the passageway. The roar of the bustle of the streets echoed up the walls, the air getting warmer and a greenish light overtaking the shadow. 

You pocketed the scratch lighter, then slid the last step, stumbling out the exit to the passage and out onto the flat concrete of the ground. You get a full glimpse of the fissures in midday rush as you take a moment to look about. The Jade District was sizably large for the Entresol level, but as packed and tightly bound as the slum streets you had left behind before. The entire neighborhood sprung up in a thin offshoot chasm that had jutted out from the main deep ravine of the left fissure. Originally being one of the richer of the neighborhoods, though compared to Piltover it was a pittance, the Jade district sported paved and mostly undamaged roads. Not that anyone could drive a vehicle down into the fissures, let alone actually traverse the underground in it, but paved roads nonetheless. It was a status symbol, one that was upheld no matter the low of the life that took up residence. You looked up to the tall cavern walls that arched up and over into the low hanging ceiling from your spot on the sidewalk, eyeing still stalagtites dripping with condensation and webs of wires zig zagging between the wall and the tops of the steppe terrace rooves of the cramped city block. Low, blocky crystal-shaped fixtures hung from chains from the cave roof, providing a safelight glow of a muddy green, giving Jade District its iconic name. Jade wasn’t leveled like the rest of the fissures, it didn’t support any hobbled gangways or shoddily built bridges to cross any gaps, it found a firm footing in the nook of the rift in the earth and sprouted its roots quickly into a twisted reflection of the kind of environment you’d see up in Piltover. You glimpse about at the faces passing you by as the busy and crowded sidewalk flowed around you. You try to step out onto the street, but every time you thought of moving your foot somebody would brush by you, making you hesitate to even move. 

The buildings within the Jade were complementary with the rest of the fissures, brutalist self built structures of wrought iron and steel. Some held semblance of genuine architecture, efforts of a long bygone era that had been flushed away from decades of societal deterioration. You looked to the lumps of tramps and drifters gathering by the edge of the sidewalk on the curb across the road. Some loitered in groups, chatting with one another like it was their dayjob. Boney and hairless men gathered around a circle on their knees, tossing dice into the ring before cheering and jeering at the result, then quickly trading wads of cash and handfuls of coins. A few younger but nasty looking people kept watch by a tall wood plank fence that wrapped around the yard to a crooked and leaning shack. They wore leather jackets that they draped over their shoulders, their sleeves dangling empty. A few bore tattoos of insignia on their bare arms or below their neck on their collar bone, an identifier between the local chem gangs that resembled the only law in the underground. Others had elaborative decorative tattoos wrapping and winding around their chests and arms, a way of passage that let people know that they served time in Dredge Prison, a penitentary labor camp that resided in the deepest levels of the Sump. A few would glance your way from the corner of their eyes, minding your intrusion. You didn’t look out of place, not at all, but you were not a familiar face and that already spelled trouble.

You try to move off the sidewalk, taking a confident step forward to leave the curb. A body bumps into you with a heavy shove and you spin about on your heel to stay upright.

“Watch where you’re going.” The cracked lips of a heavy framed woman sneered at you from behind the wide hoop of a septum piercing. She wore a rough wifebeater that was tucked into a pair of tattered cargo pants. Her right arm’s shoulder bore the same tattoo, the semblence of a gang insignia. She walked backwards as she derided you, throwing her hands open from her sides either as an invitation to fight, or a threat not to try to.

“You ran into me.” You gave her a strange, furrowed look as you dusted off the arms of your jacket.

“Yeah? Up yours, raker.” She grunted at you, then turned back to the direction she was heading. No matter how much time you spent in the fissure, you simply couldn’t keep up with the rapid change in the local lingo. It shifted almost every year, and you resolved to give up trying to keep up with it a long time ago. Though you were pretty sure she was calling you an asshole. Realizing that you were here for a reason, you turn about and look back to the exit for your employer. Lest slid down the dirt path gracefully once the sidewalk had cleared, coming to a stop after a brief trot.

“Thought I lost you there for a moment.” You try to break the ice after the long stayover of silence. You bring her scratch lighter back out of your pocket and hold it out to her. 

Lest took a moment to flick strands of cobwebs that had collected on her fur collar away from her face, then took the lighter from your hands. “The place is a bit further than here. This way.” She began walking with a quickened step ahead of you, making a clear path down the sidewalk in the direction of a skinny alley that squeezed itself between two tall complexes near where the wall of the cave made a dip and curved around behind the buildings.

“Even further?” You huff, jogging to catch up as you jab your closed hands back into your jacket pockets. “I didn’t even know Jade went this deep. I haven’t been back here in a long while.”

“Right.” She responded back, dismissing your attempt at idle chatter. 

As hard as you try, you genuinely couldn’t get a good read of Lest. She came into your office, offered you work, then whisked you away down a dark hole to a place that you convinced yourself you wouldn’t return to. Beyond that, you knew nothing of the kind of person she was. You kept a hunch that the story she gave you wasn’t exactly straight, but you weren’t being paid to investigate lies, you were being paid to investigate a theft. You hoped you were getting paid, at least. You’d wish and want for a larger sum for having to look into business about shimmer, but beggars cant be choosers and you were lucky enough she accepted your bid without haggle. 

You follow her down the street, past the slumped aching bodies of disease ridden beggars who were being driven off the streets by a pack of more chemgangers. One, hiding under the sheet of a tarp, tried to reach out and touch you. You jerked back when you got a full view of his boil ridden arm as it waved out from under its shelter as he rasped out a plea for a few coins. You pass by the long street pointing you to the alley. Storefronts to scrappy iron shacks opened into the filthy air as you pass by. You glimpse at the down-and-outs who were seated in chairs while mechanics worked slowly on mechanical limbs and modifications on the customer’s body. You pass by the junction in the road, glancing down the street and watching as a crowd gathered around a street boxing match that was being held on the sidewalk. A bulky shirtless Chirean traded blows with a an equally muscular man, darting their firsts back and forth as the crowd cheered on and a little man in a suit took cash for bets by the handful. Walking past the street, against the walls of a shanty, Pimps wearing an array of bougie regalia and fresh pressed suits chattered between each other as they leaned against the back of an apartment complex. Their whores beconed, trying to get the attention that you were not going to reward them with. 

You follow Lest as she slinked down the thin barren alley and turned the corner around the back of the lot where the metal backside of byzantine crated shacks dared to press against the walls of the cavern. At the end of the turn, stood a lone but relatively ordered brick and wood apartment squeezed in behind the buildings at the street and below the low hanging ceiling of the Jade District. It was not of the same iron and steel as the rest of the shantytown, no, it looked like if the building had tumbled down the fissures from the topside and wedged itself into the corner miraculously. The front looked to be like an old parlor of sorts, sporting a jutting canted bay window from the ground floor, a space for display of items that were no longer being traded and sold. The panes had been covered with batches of pages of old newspaper, stuck to the glass with a thin smeared layer of epoxy. A faded black four panel door sat ajar in a concave away from the bay, revealing a glimpse of a dark interior of a home blanketed in the shadow of the dim light in the caverns. You look up to the second story, the view into the square windows, yet blocked by shut white blinds. You had to give the woman some credit, the place was extremely discrete and out of the way. And if anyone with half a brain came snooping around the alley, they’d take one look at the foreboding stillness and enforced privacy and turn right around, fearing that it was the residence of somebody who’d shoot through the door before answering it.

“You actually get any business being so hidden like this?” You mutter as your gaze drifts from the windows to the ajar door. Then back to Lest who stood between you and the building, leaning on her left leg with a curve in her hip. 

“This is my home away from home, if you want to call it that. My work usually requires a lot of housecalls which means staying overnight with people who owe me favors.” She shrugged as she still kept a good hook around her coat. You hadn’t seen her loosen her grip on it besides to light a cigarette, and you suppose that she’d remain in such a defensive posture until you actually got to work. You couldn’t blame her, you’d be nerve wracked if your place was burgled. But she didn’t show it on her face, nor say it. You only picked it up in the subtle mannerisms she exhibited, like how she insisted on taking the detour or how she made you go first down the tunnel. She was in a hurry to get to the bottom of this, but she didn’t seem to ask you to rush either.

“A lot of people owe you favors when you’re providing them shimmer, huh?”

“I’m not a dealer, detective.”

“I take it you slept somewhere else last night when you came back to find the door like this, then?” You carefully step to the ajar door, leaning in and running your fingers down the black frame. The lock had been kicked in by a heavy foot, not just breaking the latch but splintering the wood and twisting the handle by almost ninety degrees. Whoever did the kicking had to be big, big enough to throw this much force into it. Nobody with a small build could shatter the wood like this. You didn’t figure the person was that smart either. Somebody with a brain would have done a job like this in a far more clean manner. Picking the lock, or slipping a flat slate of metal through the gap between the door and the frame in order to hammer out the hinges. No, this person was sloppy. Not only sloppy, but brazen enough to not care if they left such a stark trail.

“I didn’t sleep.” Lest croaked out as you peer back to her from your hunched state. “I tried doing some digging on my own, but the whole mess alluded me. Nobody that I thought could be a suspect, was one. So that’s when I came to you.” Now that she was standing still below the green glow of the light, you could see trails of a faint red marks on her bottom lids below her shadow, trailing up to each side of her canthi. It could definitely be the lack of sleep, but that kind of redness was also incurred by light chem use. You didn’t have the patience nor inclination to prod into it though, you weren’t being paid for that. In fact you weren’t being paid at all yet.

“Have you gone inside at all?” You look back to the shadow in the doorway.

“Only once when I got back and made sure nobody was still around. It’s how I found out the shimmer was gone.”

“Did you tamper with the scene at all?” You ask. It was an important question, because if she did you had to find out where to put everything back into place.

“No, not at all. I just saw that the shimmer was gone, then went to check if my money was taken as well.”

“Was it?” “It was not.”

“Before I go any further, I’m going to need that payment.” You straighten up, stuffing your hands back into your pockets like a bad habit.

“It’s inside.” Lest nodded to the door, letting you enter first just like the tunnel.

You look back to the door and inhale deeply, holding your breath for a second before releasing it steadily. There was a funny ache in the muscles of your legs, and you weren’t sure if it was a bad feeling or just the tenseness from your hangover. “I better not regret opening this door.” You warn.

“If you say so.” Lest rolled her flaxen eyes. “If I wanted to rob you, you’d think I’d have done it when I caught you half asleep at your desk.” 

“I-” You paused. You wanted to come back with an equally sly remark, but nothing surfaced. You turned away from her before you could catch sight of any kind of smugness, or none at all. Either would have equally infuriated you. You stride to the door, then nudge it open with a soft kick from the tip of your boot. The door creaked open with a slow wail, jingling a small brass bell that hung from a outcrop above your head.

“There’s a lamp to your right, twist it.”

You reach in past the door, slipping your hand under the decorative shade of a standing lamp and flicking it on with a turn of its swivel switch. The low orange glow of the bulb rose to a steady brightness, its filament struggling to keep up with the power and lighting up the embroidered shade to reveal an intricate picture of twisting stalks of tall grass and colorful bugs sewn into the fabric. You peek around the room carefully, getting a good feel for the kind of life your employer lived. A narrow, cramped livingroom stood before you, far smaller than your house as the building had not much room to expand to being stuck behind a shanty town. A tall staircase with an elegant twisting spruce railing lead up to a darkened upper floor to your far right past the bijou room coated with a greyish white and blood-red patterned wallpaper. The first thing you notice is the smell, a faint trace of mellow incense in the room that had infused itself into the warm stuffy air. A scent of sweet boiled fruit tea mixing with the faded imprint of tobacco smoke. The livingroom was so cramped it felt more like a foyer, and it did not shy away from showing the intricacies of its owner. Hanged picture frames of decorative paintings of scenery and baroque scenes of beautiful people from a bygone era preforming pictures of events from legend and lore hung from chicken wire on the walls. A tall dark crowned coat rack hid itself behind the door, rocking as it bumped against your ingress and jingling its array of stylish hats and hung-up embellished coats. An elegantly tall hunt buffet cabinet almost blocked your way into the room, hiding crystalline glasses and deep blue fine china on shelves behind its protective glass. Past it, to the left of the wall, was an open archway into an even more cramped kitchen with its shallow pantry door standing half open. A low half wall divided the foyer and the back of the apartment, a large window giving you a glimpse into a narrow den of sorts. Sumptuous tall china vases sat along the ledge, sporting colorful flowers that were in the first stages of wilt.

You walk through the entrance, passing a hanging mirror on the wall that was cornered with an elaborate carved frame. You amble into an equally elaborate rectangular room with dark shiplap pannelling. A tall-backed elongated velvet red chaise longue turned its back to you, facing the wall. It packed itself close to a low waned coffee table holding an array of assorted items. Beyond it was a pinstripe sofa armchair, pressed against the wall and facing your way. There was another shaded lamp tucked in behind the longue, and you spare no time turning it on as well and illuminating the cramped den. You look about the contents of the table, a plethora of a story to be told. A pool of cold coffee remained still in a white ceramic mug on the table, leaving the faint outline of its bottom from what looked like days of sitting there. Beside it was a long incense holder, two sticks sitting half burnt in their foxholes while tan-grey ash collected in the divot of the tray below it. There was a smooth wood bowl filled with a heap of remnants of smoked cigarettes and crumpled butts sitting onto of a gold leaf decorated box of tarot cards. At the seat of the longue chair were a small stack of a fewmagazines, most of which are just catalogues of vintage fashion and retail. If you hadn’t been told that a robbery took place here, you’d never would have guessed anything was ary. The whole house remained in a silent stillness with nothing seeming out of place. So many nice things and hidden items, yet none of them were stolen to be pawned. The culprit was most definitely after the shimmer, and the shimmer alone. 

Behind the coffee table, next to the foot of the arm chair, a blue painted tin divider case rested open on the hardwood floor. Each side of its swinging hatches were left open, staring its contents up at the smooth low plaster ceiling. You take a knee before the case, using the soft seat of the chair to lower yourself down steadily. The case had multiple levels to it for carrying, a set of trays. The top tray had been taken out and left to the side lazily, an array of rounded paint brushes of varying sizes sitting in clasp holders. You bend down, looking about the contents of the case as Lest followed you in and closed the door as far as it could go with a broken lock. She shoved a small but heavy sounding cardboard box at the foot of the coat rack in front of it, blocking the door from opening back up.

“You do any painting, miss?” You call back to her as you run your eyes across the brushes of the removed tray. Your fingers went to pluck one of them out, but you hesitated and moved your hand away.

“It’s for my work.” Lest disclosed as she took off her substantial coat and hung it up with the rest on the rack. You notice her particular taste in fashion, a plum low cowl neck shirt and a pair of wine red carpis. No wonder she kept such a tight grip on her coat, those leisured clothes weren’t the most suitable for the weather on the uptop.

“Like I said, I’ll need that payment now.” You nagged once more, watching Lest dart from the foyer and into her kitchen. You hear the clink of something, but you assumed she’s just putting her keys up or throwing loose change from her pocket into a tray. Nothing to get suspicious about.

“It’s up stairs, hold your horses.” Lest let up as she zipped back out the archway of the kitchen. She ascended up the staircase on the pads of her toes, leaving you to the silence of the investigation.

You turn back to the open case, looking now into the interior. A second tray sat at the top, filled with a thick foam lining. Indents were cut out in the foam, shapes of skinny necked vials and oblique flat bottomed bottles. This must be where she kept her small supply of shimmer. It was a rather sizable travel case, but discrete. Not the kind of thing that would make enforcers stop you for a search. You could hear the light treading of your employer descending back down the creaking stairs, then quietly joining you in the den.

“Do you usually just leave your work tools in your home ungarded?” You inquired. The way you asked sounded sarcastic, but it was a genuine question. You couldn’t leave a damn thing in your apartment that you genuinely held value in, you’ve been taken for an easy mark way too many times from your stent in the fissures. Everything that you intended on keeping, you kept hidden under a loose floorboard that was covered over by your incredibly heavy desk. This case, though? It was just sitting out here, asking to be rooted through.

“This neighborhood is safer than you think, detective.” Lest approached you, looking over your shoulder as you knelt before the armchair. “I pay my dues, I know I’m not anyone’s target here.” 

“Yeah, but if Silco’s gone, then there’s probably a lot of shifting parts within his well oiled machine going to rust. People might be making moves. That’s all just conjecture, though.” You theorize. It was conjecture. You had no idea what kind of things went on between the chem barrons, it wasn’t your world nor your position to observe. “The only thing I can say is this was well planned and precise. They knew when you weren’t home, they came in quick and loud, and all they took was the shimmer.” You hum in thought. “But why such effort for so little?” You ask yourself under your breath. “Was there anything special about your supply? Was it different? More concentrated?”

“The opposite of that. I diluted it with water, it’s why I keep- Kept so little.”

“Why do that, though?”

“My job is to help people try to heal with it, not to get them addicted to it. Like I said, I’m not a dealer.” Lest asserted, still looking over your shoulder. “Are you going to take it, or what?”

“What do you mean?” You turn back to her, twisting from your spot where you knelt. She extended out a closed white envelope to you, thick with what was probably a wad of bills. You notice intricate gold plated rings around her pinky and middle fingers. A cocktail ring with a broad emerald-looking jewel accompanied by a small filigree on her pinky. Did she have those on before, you wonder? “Oh.” You stammer. You reach back and take the envelope from her hand. The contents felt thick and dense, heavy in your hand. Most definitely bills. You slide under the lapel of your jacket and into the inside pocket.

“You’re not going to count it?” Lest raised her thin eyebrow, taking a seat at the foot of the longue.

“No, why would I?” You turn back to the armchair. You pick up the tray that was left out on the floor and return it to its case. It slowly slides in with a glide, fitting the case with an almost perfect volume.

“I mean, it could be just paper.”

“I don’t have any reason not to trust you that it isn’t money.” You hum. “Liars don’t really point out that they’re liars. And the ones that do, are already bad at telling lies.” 

You close each side of the case shut, fitting the sides together and redoing the hook latch that kept it closed. As you moved the left side hatch away, you noticed a crumpled butt of a cigarette smeared into the vaneer of the wood of the floor. You picked up the case, setting it aside on the seat of the armchair. You used your fingernails to peel the butt from the floor, squishing the cotton between you index finger and thumb to return its shape. You bring it close to your eye to get a look at the logo on it, red paper with a company called Wickrams. It wasn’t a popular brand, and rather pricey. Not something that a chainsmoker would buy. And why would it be smeared into the veneer? It was trodded on sloppily, like the person was in a hurry to leave. You look back to Lest, who was silently observing you work as she kept a straight posture from the edge of the lounge sofa. 

“This your brand?” You pinch the cigarette butt. She extended a cupped hand, and you drop it in, then stand up.

“No.” She droned, squinting at the logo. “It could have fallen out of the bowl.” She tossed the butt into the aformentioned wood bowl sitting ontop of the deck of tarots, adding it to the heap of ash. “Do you usually let your clients smoke in here?”

“Like I said, I make housecalls.” She shrugged, batting her eyelids. “But yeah, the ones who can only afford to travel to me smoke in here.”

“Any of them smoke Wickrams, then?” You pick the bowl up from its spot, then look through the pile of ash. Most of the butts where pure white with a cobalt blue stip around the top end where the tobacco once touched, a common brand by the name of Stahols. Cheap and plentiful down in the fissures, you could find them anywhere from booze shops to the slum markets. But your question was the right one to ask, as a few strays were the same red as the one Lest had thrown into the bowl with the rest. “Better question to ask is do any of them bring their own, or bum from you?”

“I mean-” Lest paused with a stir in her expression, then sighed. “I can’t say for certain, but yeah one brings their own.”

“Then we have our first suspect.” You dust your ash-covered hands off back into the bowl, rubbing away the faint trail of gray. “What’s their name?”

“I have a policy of confidentiality, just like you.” Lest gave you a disdainful look. She must have taken her job seriously. If it paid as well as it sounds, then you couldn’t blame her.

“I’m not saying they did it, calm down.” You roll your eyes with a swirl. “I’m saying is that people dirty enough to break into your house are dirty enough to extort information from one of your clients. It could have been an accident, you never know.”

You watched Lest’s eyes drift down to the corners of the room by the wall, reading back and forth. It did take a lot of convincing to break such a policy, on your part and her own. “Okay.” She looked back up at you towering above her as you stood in the cramped den. 

“Well?”

“Yeah, there’s one guy.” She suspired deeply. “His name is Aquil. He’s kind of a young guy, but not green. He comes in to treat a lame wrist, one he broke a while ago and it just never set right.”

“Who’s this guy, then? What does he do?”

“Please don’t go bothering my clients.”

“Do you want to find out who took your stuff, or not?”

“He’s part of one of the cliques that run the chopshops down on Leftpoint avenue, across the gap and up near where the pump stations are. I forgot the name of the gang, something ridiculous.” Lest yielded her precious code of confidentiality with hesitation.

“So he’s part of the Motorrunners, then?” You scratch your chin in thought. You knew the gang well, they were a prime place to sell looted scrap. You had dropped off some collected junk a few times when you were younger and when the gang was ran by a more friendlier face that had long since retired. “The garage shop that has all the neon signs on it, right? Out next to that liquor store with the bars on its windows.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Lest gave you a perplexed look, pressing her brows together. “You know it?”

“Yeah, I’m not a stranger. I used to live down here too, y’know.” You bend over the coffee table and pluck one of the red butts from the ash, sticking it into your pocket.

“You don’t seem like it.”

“What do I seem like, then?” You scoff.

“Not sure. Just not Zaunite material. I was suspecting you were from Piltover, actually.”

“You’re the one that looks like you spend more time in Piltover than I ever have.” You motion a finger in her direction, entertained by the statement. “Making house calls, bumming off couches, being owned favors for secrecy, being paid enough to hire your own detective. You’re not that hard to figure out.” You amble back into the foyer, idly looking at the baroque paintings and glancing at your sorry state in the mirror.

“I assure you there are things that you’d never guess in your wildest dreams, detective.” Lest stood up from the lip of the lounge and followed you out.

“Try as I might, try as I may. Probably not, huh?” You mutter as you near the outcropping of the bay window. You trace your hands across the newspaper plastered to the panes, then peel a loose corner back to check if it was clear outside. Across from the house, down the alley, you saw him. Lyric. He was standing idly by the wall of the cavern, watching the house with a tenseness in his shoulders. His head darted back between watching the house and checking the end of the alley his black hair bobbing as it turned. He was probably antsy to avoid anyone noticing him down there. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” You groaned, putting the corner of the newspaper back into place.

“I was actually about to ask you who he was.” Lest bent down and moved the heavy box out from the stop at the door. She pushed it back under the hang of the coatrack, then pulled the loose door open by its twisted handle. “He was following us ever since we left your office.”

“A thorn in my damn ass, that’s who.” You shove your hands back into your pockets as you accept her invite to leave, descending the lip of the frame and trodding back into the street. Lyric’s eyes brightened up as he saw you leave in the distance, waving his hand to get your attention. You turn back to Lest, who kept the door half-closed as she leaned out with a leer. 

“Like I said, I can get to the bottom of this, but I can’t get your shimmer back. I may be in the mood to bend a few rules, but I’m not about to take on a chem gang for you.”

“I understand.” Lest muttered, looking at Lyric who was now waving merrily at her as well. She gave a short, subtle wave back, then looked back to you. “I’ll be staying at the Grande Trevale, come find me when you’ve got something.”

“More favors you’re owed to get a place in there?” You smirk.

“Always, detective.” She gave you a subtle smile back before closing the door gently. 

You watched the empty front of the parlor for a moment and listened to the box being shifted back into place. You snort, then spin back around on your heel as you watch Lyric slowly approach with a skip in his footing.

“You’ve finally got a job!” Lyric proclaimed as he walked and stood before you, watching you behind a sparkle in his green eyes. He stuck his hands in his pocket, mimicking you. He mimicked you all too well, that’s exactly why he was here.

“Yeah, I do. And you’re not coming.” You shoot down his hopes, doing it quick so he couldn’t keep lying to himself. You weren’t keen on bringing a kid like him into gang territory. Not that Lyric couldn’t handle himself, more that he’d get in the way.

“But-!” Lyric protested before you cut him off again.

“No.”

“You need backup!” He argued, the dumb smile never leaving his face. You find it endearing, how there’s a world out there that keeps trying to beat him down, and yet he never stops keeping a positive outlook. You hated that you had to be a part of it, but you also didn’t want to set a bad example. “What’s a detective without a protege? It’d be like a Heimerdingr without a Ziggs! A bird without a nest! A travesty, I tell you.”

“No, kid.” You repeat.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“Fine.” You relent with a groan, pinching the corners of your eyes between your nose. You didn’t have the energy to fight this battle, your headache was beginning to creep back up on you and work its way through your scalp. You’d take the kid, sure. He’d get his taste for adventure, then you’d cut his aspirations short and send him home. A little appeasement for a little privacy, it was a fair deal. “You’re not do anything but follow me. You’re not going to talk to anybody, or touch anything, or do anything but stand there.” You warn him sternly as you jab your finger against his coated collar. “If you do anything besides that, you’re fired.”

“Deal!” Lyric laughed, putting his lean hand in yours and giving it a congratulatory shake like the little businessman he was. “Where are we going?” he chirps as he watches you pass him and head back down the alley. He ran forward, catching up with your long stride, not idle enough to be left behind.

“To Leftpoint, I’ve got some business.”

[aziraphales-library]

Lost Fic #194

1. Turning to my fellow forum members because I can't find the fic and fear it might have been deleted: The fic starts with Crowley and Aziraphale at the Ritz talking about the Fall and Aziraphale is terrified of the idea of Falling. They have an argument and Crowley says something like I wish you had fallen then you wouldn't be so scared all the time and then Aziraphale leaves. The next morning Crowley goes to the bookshop to apologize and finds Aziraphale has Fallen, but also hasn't? There is now a Fallen Aziraphale with sheep horns and also a non fallen Aziraphale. The latter is seated at his desk and hasn't acknowledged his demon counterpart or realized they are there. Crowley wanting to figure out how this happens decides to take Fallen Aziraphale to his flat, but discovers that if they are away from Angel Aziraphale Fallen Aziraphale passes out. The fic centers on Crowley dealing with 2 Aziraphales and trying to explore a relationship with both. Later we learn that Aziraphale forced himself to forget he made the Fallen Aziraphale to explore what a relationship with Crowley could be like without the risk of Falling. There is a scene where Crowley buys fallen Aziraphale a floral hairband thing for around their horns. And he panics when Fallen Aziraphale suddenly vanishes when angel Aziraphale finally acknowledges he created them and is controlling both bodies in a 1 soul 2 bodies kind of deal. - @05nataku

2. Hey! I have a desperate request for a lost fic. I have the habit of screenshotting/copy and pasting bits and pieces of fics that stuck with me somewhere, but recently I found one without name of the fic or the author. If somebody could tell me what those are, I'd be grateful all my life. It has been KILLING me! "I'm here for you, only for you." [love you] It sounded a little like will you marry me. - anon

3. Hello! :-) I'm looking for a 'through the ages' type fic. It was about how Crowley adopted a girl from Pompeii. From what I remember he had a huge house and Aziraphale & Crowley just bickered the entire time. They may have had to fake a relationship, but I'm not 100% sure about that. I think it was multi-chapter. Thank you so much! - anon

4. Hi, hearing that series 3 will be based on the unwritten sequel reminded me of an old fic, but I've been unable to find it. The fic was book!omens / pre-tv series, and was a fan version of the unwritten sequel based on the info publicly available from what NG & TP had said about the plot - it involved Crowley & Aziraphale travelling America, Jesus, national parks, Aziraphale making notes while watching free 15 mins of porn on the TV (and annoying Crowley with how much time this was taking up). I am not sure if the fic was on a03, I have vague memories of reading it not on a white screen, so think it was maybe hosted on LiveJournal? I think I originally found it via a rec list of classic fics on tumblr sometime shortly after S1 came out, but have been unable to find that list. Any help on finding it would be appreciated, but understand it may be lost to time. Thank you <3 - @mountlandme

5. Hello hello hello! Lovely stuff that you all are doing here! I've sauntered vaguely into this askbox because I'm looking for something- I really don't have high hopes for this to be found- it would take at least half a miracle, I think. But if anyone can find it, it's gonna be you, so i thought I might as well give it a shot. A few months ago, I read a wonderful little fic about Hastur and Ligur that I just CANNOT find anymore- pre fall setting, both were angels. Ligur was building the moon (or helping) and Hastur was some kind of watcher angel who was supposed to observe everything? I'm afraid I'm a bit blurry on the details, but I think Hastur was being made fun of by the other angels, and he hid in some kind of cave, feeling terribly overwhelmed and anxious- where Ligur later found him. The story then went on a little to describe the relationship they ended up forming through that. I'm terribly sorry that this is not a lot of info to go off of- I've looked through hundereds of fics and everything on the maggot husbands tag- but nothing was ringing any bells. Might have overlooked it, I'm not sure. It could just be gone. If there is any way anyone could help me find this again, I would be eternally grateful. But either way- thank you for taking the time to read this- and thank you for all the lovely work you do! - anon

If you know any of these fics please include the number in your reply! Thank you :)

- Mod D

[plague-karm]

Right time to analyse this shit because god dammit I have been silently making theories about this show the second I saw the premise I’m about to become the most annoying person on the planet on god so LETS GOOOOOOO-

First things first the animation looks fucking phenomenal (let Kevin Temmer cook, that man can do no wrong). Also Caine the guy ever, he is the silly and I love him wholeheartedly, he’s just a fucked up little guy who’s living his best life fr.

And also NEW CHARACTER HELLO.

They do be circling though.

THE SILLIES ARE HERE LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOO 🎉🎉🎉

Smiling Gangle spotted ten seconds before disaster, no thoughts head empty indeed.

ALSO I WASN’T EXPECTING STUFF OUTSIDE THE CIRCUS BUT IT’S A WELCOME SURPRISE WHOA

They have come to steal your credit card information.

The thoughts I had of Ragatha being the lone brain cell keeping everything together were completely correct I CALLED IT- (it has been said by Gooseworx that she has been there the second longest so she’s probably gotten used to the zaniness by now…maybe)

A door that leads to a void?

Maybe it has something to do with this room in the teaser trailer? Possibly.

Tumblr sexyman spotted.

''If there was a way to leave I'm sure we'd have all left by now''

They're ✨suffering✨

This caught me off guard when I first saw it lmao (holy FUCK I love Zooble's design, they're everything to me).

''Welcome to your new home...AND your new body...''

So they're aware that they were human before they entered the circus? That's interesting considering what happens in a few seconds (I'll get to that soon). It's also worth mentioning that Gooseworx has stated that their clothes ARE a part of their bodies.

Case in point...

At the end of the character introduction compilation Gooseworx posted to their YouTube channel Pomni is heard saying something along the lines of

''How do I...take this...headset off?!''

I saw a few people theorizing about her talking about a VR headset and that was how she entered the circus to begin with (I had the same thoughts until very recently). However, considering how much of the visuals and character designs are based on old media (also a teaser image was set up as the menu screen for a retro game), I'm beginning to think that this isn't the case.

So it's incredibly likely that Pomni is actually talking about her jester headpiece since she can't take it off.

This scene is probably the first time Pomni sees her new body, pinwheel eyes and all.

''I'm fine with whatever, as long as I get to see funny things happen to people''

I love him he's so unbothered.

I'm sad that we didn't get to hear any dialogue from them but I can't wait to see them in the pilot! Kinger is love, Kinger is life.

''After a while you start to realise that you really can't leave, and constantly chasing an unattainable goal will start driving you a little crazy''

She's a little fucked up actually wow who saw that coming.

It sounds like Ragatha tried to leave a few times and just resigned to her fate after a while, her description DID say that she was the ''sweetest little optimist in the digital circus'', so maybe she's told the others that escaping is impossible and that they should make the best of their situation instead? (Also the framed picture of the right looks like some kind of void, a lot of void imagery here).

Also, Gooseworx released this image a short while ago and it has the same background that Ragatha had while she was talking so she's DEFINITELY talking to Pomni here.

''OH GOD! WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER MY NAME?!''

EXCUSE ME? Okay time for some more speculation. I knew that their names definitely weren't their real ones but I wasn't expecting them to forget them!

Now, since the premise is said to be centred around Pomni and the others getting messed with by AI and their traumas, maybe instead of forgetting what their names were, they actually REPRESSED their memories from when they were human due to the trauma they went through? (Which would include their names)

I don't buy that they've COMPLETELY forgotten who they were (Zooble is aware that the body they're in isn't the one they used to have so I'm guessing everyone else knows that too.)

I'm guessing that their human lives absolutely SUCKED and they've now repressed their trauma to the point where they can barely remember who they were in the human world, this is just speculation.

''Thank goodness this is all a dream, right Pomni?''

What a sassy little guy (it's so weird hearing Michael Kovach sound so reserved, he's normally feral as hell playing these kinds of characters). The little mannequin symbol on the door is probably there for when new people stumble into the circus.

She's definitely seen some shit, I wonder what it could be though?

OH MY GOD THERE'S MORE OF THEM 😭

Wow this background looks...oddly normal. The only thing I can think of this being is Pomni witnessing a flashback of her human life before she showed up in the circus.

''You completely lose sight of who you are and why you're even alive and when you reach your breaking point something REALLY terrible can happen''

OH? Okay speculation time again. This is the closest hint we've gotten to what exactly one of the gang's traumas could be. Ragatha may have forced herself to stay positive in really shitty situations during her human life which likely lead to a lot of negative thoughts which eventually lead to her doing...something, I'm not sure what though, maybe it lead to her losing an eye? (Maybe her new body represents that?) I'm not sure. Maybe this is why she's been in the circus for as long as she has, instead of dealing with her feelings and existentialism, she instead continues to try to be someone who's more adjusted than they actually are.

Again, this is all just speculation, maybe it's just an Infinity Train type of thing where they can't leave until they learn to accept what they went through and how to work through it healthily idk.

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? Well, I'll tell you what I think it is.

I think it's this weird tar like tentacle thing from the teaser trailer, I don't see what else it could be.

And I'm 90% sure that whatever it is, it's connected to this room, and I think that THIS is gonna be where we'll be seeing what the gangs traumas are (Ragatha looked TERRIFIED when she was grabbed so if this was the case I wouldn't be surprised). I'd also like to speculate that this could possibly be another AI. There's Caine, Bubble, and whatever the hell those little shape creatures are, so it's very likely that other AI does exist, we just haven't seen them yet.

But who knows? I'm probably looking too much into it.

Woah new background, he is angy.

I would go into another theory I have about how their designs may hint at what trauma they have but I've spent over an hour writing, compiling trailer screenshots, and speculating every individual frame while suffering with chest pains I wanna go to bed

Holy shit that took WAY longer than I thought it would. I cannot WAIT to watch the pilot, this show has become one of my most anticipated projects of the year over the last few months and I can't wait to see what it has in store.

TL;DR: The trailer looks fire 10/10 can't wait for the inevitable Pomni plushes.

[fallloverfic]

Thoughts for people worried about what happens in ENNEAD Season 2, Episode 98 (the newest Korean episode that went up ~5 hours ago as of this writing) and how this will affect Horuseth.

(tldr; I think Horuseth is fine, but spoilers and discussion below the read more)

To sum up part of what happened: we see that Nephthys seemingly loved Seth to some degree before Anubis was born or perhaps even conceived. We don't fully know the details: as Isis indicates at the episode end, there's more to this that we're not seeing (and we'll probably see next episode), because Nephthys was proven honest by Maat's scales when Nephthys testified that she loved Osiris in S01E69.

The implication from S02E97 is that Hathor's mirror made Nephthys love Osiris, and Nephthys' affection/love/memories of love(?) was trapped in the mirror after she looked into it.

We don't quite have confirmation that happened, just Horus putting pieces together, and the implication we're going to either get confirmation/learn more at least in the next episode. Horus has been wrong before and hasn't had the whole picture before, lest we forget in S01E36-7 where he accused Sekhmet of imprisoning Nephthys in the mirror and making, "the fake Nephthys give birth to Anubis. [She] got rid of the real god of peace and provoked the god of war... ...in order to stain the land of Egypt with blood." (If the Nephthys in Heliopolis was never a fake after all, and mirror!Nephthys is just some of her memory/feelings, then yeah, Horus really didn't know the truth of the situation). He might still be right about some part of that, but recent episodes have seemingly indicated that while his intuition was right on points, he didn't investigate enough and came to the wrong factual conclusions about things, because he just trusted his intuition too much. He states as much in S02E97: how he relied overmuch on his intuition, which made him an idiot.

Anyway, on to the "Seth/Nephthys really did love each other and they're gonna get back together so now Horuseth can't be a thing anymore" stuff I see people doomposting about.

Folks do remember Seth loved Nephthys for a really long time, right? Like Seth says as much in S01E48: "I love Nephthys with all my heart". His loving her is not news. It's why the potential idea of her never loving him to begin with/Osiris' involvement hurt so bad.

If you think Nephthys needed to love him back to make his love for her... real(?) and thus, perhaps, his hurt valid or invalid or I don't know, that's just really strange. He loved her. He was hurt by the idea she never loved him, or never loved him fully, or otherwise lied about it, on top of lying to him about the identity of Anubis' biological father. For perhaps hundreds of years. It's still a tragedy, it's just perhaps more tragic because maybe Osiris really was a liar - like he seemed to be anyway, because he loves manipulating the truth/reality to his whims - and maybe Nephthys really was done wrong, too, by having her affections stolen.

Nephthys maybe loving him back doesn't make anything he went through that night less painful than it already was. More painful, perhaps, but it was already a tragedy. He was already on the road to becoming who he is now. It doesn't change the fact that unfortunately, Nephthys seemingly didn't love him at that point, and had lied to him about Anubis.

One of the few things we knew about Seth/Nephthys prior to S02E98 is that Seth would act angry so that Nephthys couldn't talk to him. In S01E41, Seth tells Osiris during the night of usurpation, "I always just acted angry so that I wouldn't have to hear what she had to say. She was probably afraid of things ending up this way..."

He already had regrets about their relationship. This just seemingly confirmed his fears (his fear of "being forgotten by them" from earlier in the episode/the previous episode).

People can move on from relationships. I don't personally see how, after everything both Nephthys and Seth have been through in the hundreds of years since what happened in S02E98, that Seth and Nephthys fully can come back to the relationship in the memory in S02E98. Possible, yes. Probable? Ehhh...

Seth might be glad Osiris is a confirmed liar. (If that's true: again, even Isis notes in the episode there's more to what's going on we haven't seen yet). Seth might be glad to know he really was loved. He might hate himself for doubting Nephthys. Seth might hate Osiris more for any number of things, particularly if Osiris intentionally placed the mirror in Seth's rooms to either make Seth fall in love with him or make Nephthys fall out of love with Seth (with the possible idea of making Seth turn to Osiris out of a sense of abandonment or something idk) or at least put Nephthys at risk of getting harmed.

It's been hundreds of years, though (if not more than that). Seth and Nephthys are now very different people, and Seth has a good and improving relationship with Horus. Nephthys saw Seth abuse Anubis (S01E05). Seth trapped Isis in the labyrinth, and Nephthys helped her out. Seth hurt a lot of people and cursed many people. Maybe whatever romantic love she might have had for him, even if she somehow gets it back, hasn't survived all that she's gone through and seen.

Seth's been through a lot, mentally, too. I kind of think he's moved on and after everything he's done, he might be too ashamed to go back to her. Even if it was out of their control that Nephthys stopped loving him, the other stuff still happened.

You don't need to doompost about Horuseth. Nothing has really changed. I say that in the sense that while the idea of Nephthys potentially having loved Seth until the mirror's interference might hurt him, particularly if he discovers Horus hid it from him, Seth is still who he is, he's still done all the things he's done, as king, as a father, as a husband, as a sibling, and he's still got this thing with Horus going.

Remember, in S02E70, Seth says to Horus, "I'm a god of the old generation who needs to disappear, not to mention an evil god who destroyed the country." He already has a lot of self-esteem issues and doesn't view himself highly. One reason he likes Horus is seemingly that Horus sees who he is beneath all that: believes in him as a guardian god, as a powerful god worthy of respect and affection ("My nephew, who dragged me down, is the only one who acknowledges me" - S02E74).

But also Seth did a lot of terrible things and he knows it. Horus is okay with that - to a degree at least, particularly with Seth trying to make amends - but is Nephthys? Nephthys, who gave him the curse bracelet - which nearly killed him multiple times - to make amends? She says in S01E66 she doesn't want him to be purged, and she clearly wants to support him, but that's not the same as wanting to live as his wife/partner again.

If nothing else, what keeps Horuseth together might be Seth realizing this doesn't change all that much about who they are. He could be mad at Horus. I can see him getting furious about this. He might even attack Horus, maybe even badly injure or kill him (but it's possible Horus could be revived, like how Isis revived Osiris, or something about Horus' uniqueness as a demigod/god). Maybe they'll separate and have an eventual reconciliation. But I don't personally believe they're doomed as a couple because of this. There's too many ways for them to stay together or get back together.

People can have past good, healthy relationships and not stay together. Sometimes we just grow out of relationships and into new ones. It happens. Horus makes Seth feel seen and cared for, and he listens to things that seemingly Seth's siblings - even maybe before whatever happened with Nephthys happened - didn't listen to, like Seth's opinions about eating or his opinions on his "duty" to guard Egypt or Seth's status as a god or his relationship with Isis.

Maybe Seth/Nephthys gets back together briefly but Seth goes back to Horus in the end because they don't work or he loves Horus more and his and Nephthys' time apart just doesn't let them work or Nephthys wants to focus on herself for a while. Maybe Seth attacks Horus because Horus hid info about Nephthys' affections. Maybe Horuseth reconciles because Seth realizes Horus genuinely loves him and hid whatever he learned because he genuinely loves Seth or was otherwise afraid of talking or how to explain it, and Seth realizes it's a messy thing to explain. Maybe Horus didn't say anything because, like he was seemingly aware the first time he went into the mirror, mirror!Nephthys/her affection for Seth, can't come out of the mirror anyway, so what's going to change? This is encouraged by the fact that Isis apparently learned all of this and did nothing about it. Even the god of magic - and miracles - hasn't freed mirror!Nephthys, when she possibly had opportunity (or maybe there's another reason we haven't learned yet for why she didn't; point is we don't know much). Seth might look at that and go, "I really hate this, but I guess it's just how things are now, and I'm going to learn to live with it."

Maybe Seth realizes that, despite everything, he genuinely cares for Horus and this isn't going to defeat them. That Horus had his back time and again. Sometimes things being out of our control don't mean we can just go back to how we were. Life happens. He's still got Nephthys' curse bracelet :/

If you, like I, believe Horuseth is real at this point, have faith that it'll continue to be real despite this. Horus is the main love interest, it's a boys love series, their relationship is pretty strong already, and more to the point, Mojito is a good writer. I think they'll be fine.

[inconmess]

I've been building up this post for quite a while so I think everything in this post is kinda out of order and looks like a bit of a big word vomit... So sorry in advance. Also since it is kinda longer than I realise, I am putting it under the cut. And I am open to any discussion.

(Personally think I may have gotten a few things wrong and if so, please correct me?)

I think the thing about Orym and grief is... A part of him has never let himself grieve his loss properly. He has accepted that they are dead and will never come back, yes. He makes it a point to live up to them everyday, yes. But acceptance is not the same as grief, it is a part of it but not the same.

And this was an interesting discussion I was having with my friends and I feel that it strikes so true here, is the fact that you remember the worst moments of your life more vividly than the happiest moments because in your happy moments, you don't question what happened to you as much as you question your worst moments in life.

And Orym has lived with that question for six years. Now, the same could be said to Ashton and Imogen and Fearne and the rest of the Bells Hells really but as pointed out in this post by @caeslxys. (a really good pot btw) Even though the others have had their questions as to why a particular bad incident happened, Orym has had the shortest time to actually cope with it while for the others, it has been years at this point and maybe they have sort of come to peace with most of their shit before it came back to hit them in their face. And for some, it just hit them recently.

And for Orym the question of "Why?" resurfaces again and again the more he seeks out answers and when he does get the answer... I don't think anyone would really love to learn that the two most important people in their lives were dead because "it was just collateral damage. They didn't really have to die but they did." Not when you were having a happy, peaceful life. They signed up for this, yes. But it is also not fair to have your whole life cut short just because a big shot wants to test a theory.

And I am not trying to say that Orym bringing up his losses every time they have a discussion about the Vanguard is right or wrong because he has every right to and may be wrong at the same time because he is biased. Because at this point, he is very biased.

Apart from what I mentioned above, Orym watched Otohan kill his husband and father. He fought Otohan again and this time lost his life, Fearne and Laudna. He fights Otohan again and nearly loses Keyleth. Fights Otohan again a fourth time and knows that there would've been more losses if FCG hadn't sacrificed themselves. Not to forget Otohan killing Eshteross, something I think Orym internally blames himself for because she read his mind for the information. And even if Otohan is now dead, the loss stays.

I also think that seeing Will when he died had more of a personal impact than he realised because I know while seeing the dead person can sometimes bring some comfort, at the same time, when you are trying to live up to them, trying to answer questions that are just beyond you when you really haven't had the chance to completely grieve and accept, the grief possibly just hits you more.

SO while the Hells have had their personal losses with the Vanguard and Otohan, I think Orym has had the longest beef with the group among them all. He didn't know about the Vanguard 6 years ago, yes. He discovered their name along with the rest of the Hells. But loss wise, Orym was the first of the lot to suffer due to the Vanguard.

This is not me trying to put an exact scale or measurement of the loss cuz it is intangible and stuff. But he's been dealing with it for 6 years. Maybe not for harbouring revenge, but the resentment hasn't completely gone but rather festered the more he seeked answers. So he is going to be extra jaded.

But not to forget the fact that up until Bordor, he did try to see the Vanguard's point too, still kinda does (the locket he took from a Vanguard member as a reminder) but I think by the time of Bordor's betrayal, he's had too many losses with the Vanguard to actually care of their point of view because all he's seen of their group is innocent people getting killed or almost killed for no reason at all.

Bordor's beef as a person from the Vanguard had been against Laudna, Orym and Ashton but he still nearly killed Prism and would've probably marked it off as collateral if she'd died. Dropping off the locket with Bordor doesn't mean that he left all his empathy but at the same time, like he mentions, they are at war. And war doesn't really discriminate amongst people. It just takes.

Like he said to Imogen, I think he still tries to believe the Vanguard can have some people who are good and not all of them are evil but all he's know from the Vanguard at this point is loss and Liliana's blind faith towards Ludinus or Predathos doesn't help.

So back to the recent episode.

Do I think that it is wrong for Orym to bring up to Liliana about his dead family as an answer to her response. No. Do I think it was a wrong time to bring it up? Maybe. Because Liliana was not being confrontational but Orym was turning confrontational the more the discussion happened.

But the thing about Orym saying it to her face is that... It is one thing to know that there have been deaths and even if Liliana didn't directly cause it, she was a part of the group that did and brush it off as collateral damage. And no one does a census or survey post the "collateral damage" on how it affects the other person because now, they have what they want to there is no use to go back there.

And Orym is kinda like that mirror which is like... "SO you had a loss because of the gods and now are going around leaving collateral damage you want to fix stuff? Guess what? Your collateral damage was my life that you just uprooted just like the gods/god people did yours, so are you really any different from the people you hate and the change you want to bring about?" (which is kinda the parallel between Orym and Bordor I find really interesting because this is a cycle that is never ending at the end of the day)

And did Orym need that outlet? Hells yeah. GIVE THAT MAN A HUG!

[theoceanoasis]

Soundrod

Soundwave goes looking for Rodimus after a one night stand. He finds him four months later with a belly thats pretty big and a noticeable waddle.

"What did you do?"

He stared at the text for a long time wondering what Ravage was talking about.

"What happened?"

"I can smell you on him. How could you forget protection!?"

"What?"

He sat up staring at the message in shock.

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you hooked up with anyone recently?"

He was about to respond with no he hasn't when he suddenly froze remembering a few weeks ago. The Lost Light had landed on Cybertron which meant Megatron was back.

He ended up getting really drunk and there was a pretty speedster who's valve felt so perfect around his spike as he clung to him moaning and begging for more.

He couldn't remember if they used protection or not. Both of them were drunk and eager to touch each other.

"Send me the coordinates to the Lost Light I'm coming there immediately."

"I'll see you soon. Although he's been trying to hide it I know it won't be long before others notice."

"It wasn't that long ago. How can he be showing already?"

"I think he's carrying twins."

He stood there in shock and then began packing his stuff.

"I'll see you soon. Watch over him until I get there."

"Of course."

He hung up and Ravage sent the coordinates and a way to track the Lost Light. He got his affairs in order before leaving as soon as possible.

If Rodimus was hiding his carrying there had to be a reason and that's what worried him the most. Although he didn't know him very well he wasn't going to let anything happen to him or their sparkling. They could figure everything else along the way.

When he finally reached the Lost Light they had landed on a planet to refuel and gather supplies. He observed Rodimus and noticed he was wearing something to hide his belly. Looking at the others it seemed they were unaware including his Amica.

On the way over he'd pulled up Rodimus file and learned everything he could about him, wanting to be prepared.

With Ravages help the two of them met up in secret away from prying optics. Rodimus was shocked and put a protective hand on his tanks without realizing it.

He'd suspected he was a tank carrier but this confirmed it. Rodimus must have realized what he did because he freaked out looking panicked.

He quickly reassured him because he just wanted to talk. Rodimus was weary and protective of their sparkling which made something inside of him happy.

"I want to join the Lost Light and be there for you and our sparkling."

Rodimus had looked conflicted reminding him that Megatron was there. Although he didn't want to deal with his former friend he accepted it wanting to be there for Rodimus. Who looked surprised that he'd stay with him even if he had to deal with Megatron someone he despised. It made his spark hurt as he wondered who hurt Rodimus and promised himself that he'd never be like them.

Finally he agreed and after filling out the necessary paperwork thanks to Ultra Magnus he was now part of the crew.

Both of them wanted to be close but they weren't ready to share a room yet. So he got the one next to Rodimus which used to be Drifts.

When they were finally alone in the privacy of Rodimus room he asked to see his bump. He looked nervous and he tried to reassure him knowing the horror's tank carriers faced on Cybertron.

Eventually he agreed and he gasped looking at his belly in awe.

"You're so beautiful."

Rodimus blushed and let him touch his belly. Which seemed to soothe the carrier and their sparkling having him so close.

He stroked his belly and talked to their little one. When he looked up at Rodimus he could see that he was equally as excited as he was.

There was an electrifying tension between the two of them as though they were too magnets coming together. The two of them began to make out and he helped lay Rodimus in his bed, while he worshipped his beautiful body.

If Rodimus wasn't already sparked he would have been from the amount of transfluid that had been pushed inside of him.

When the two of them were finally satisfied they cuddled together and fell asleep. Both of them excited for the future.

[psychicreadsgirl]

Could you please do a personality and general reading (career/health/love) for Jang Wonyoung (IVE)?

Personality wise/other stuff I pick up about her

Very guarded, secretive, protective of herself, has very few friends (almost 0), independent, focused on her career, very serious (don't joke about her), very cold, doesn't really express her emotions/doesn't really feel much, kind of robotic, has some trauma that she is deeply suppressing like if she remembers this incident or some other ones she'll break down, suppresses her feelings a lot so she doesn't feel anything, determined, disciplined, worries a lot

I'd say her mental health is pretty poor - also probably grinds her teeth a lot due to stress/anxiety. Her personality is very suppressed or robotic because of her mental health. She is blocking a lot of feelings/emotions - when I read her, I just get a very empty person, almost like a pretty porcelain doll...

She could potentially break down fully at any time if she gets triggered. Either her mental health is so poor that she can't even stand on stage or her physical health is so bad that she needs to be hospitalized.

There are some traumatic/unhappy instances that she would like to forget and keeps blocking them away. I think her thinking is that as long as she doesn't feel, she won't get hurt. She'll probably overwork herself or control herself in unhealthy ways like diet. She gets some sense of control when she's able to control what she eats and her weight. She tries to fill the emptiness/unhappiness in her life by getting more CFs etc because that makes her feel like what happened was worth it (i.e. she's successful etc.)

It is difficult to get a true personality reading for her at this moment in time because she has shut herself down completely. You're really looking at an empty shell within her right now. If you look at her eyes from recent pictures, you can see that they're more or less empty. There's no "soul" in the eyes. Perhaps years ago, she was more energetic, optimistic, and happy.

(Compare Wonyoung's eyes with the other 2 guests beside her. You'll see what I mean.)

*So this Wonyoung post became frozen when I clicked post, yet it still posted. That to me means that Wonyoung feels very stuck in her current situation yet time still goes on, so she sort of feels like she has left herself behind at a platform a long time ago while everyone's time sort of continues to go on. I think she does want help/want a way out of this because my post still got published. If she didn't want her situation to be known at all, then my post would have just completely froze and I wouldn't have been able to publish it at all. Unfortunately at this time I don't think I see anyone extending their hand out to help her nor is she directly asking for help. She's too guarded for anyone (tbh) to offer help..

[nickgerlich]

Last Time

It’s time for one of my favorite blog topics, one I return to each semester. No, it’s not fluff and filler when I can’t find something else more important to talk about. It’s got a heavy dose of nostalgia, but you often don’t recognize that delightful taste until I push you to do something first.

And what is that, Dr. Gerlich? Simple. I want to you think back to the last time you used a product or service, but at the time, did not know it was going to be the last time. That’s another way of saying you probably had no clue what was happening around you, how your consuming ways were about to change, but they sure did.

I bring this up because of a news item I saw about the new Jeep Wrangler ditching manual windows in favor of powered ones, effectively ending an era in how vehicles were made. You won’t be able to find a crank window in any new vehicle from henceforth, although if you look around used car lots, you might get lucky.

But who wants to “roll down your window” like that anyway?See what I did there? It was so part and parcel to vehicles that it became enmeshed in the vernacular. It’s kind of like an old person like me saying “fast forward,” when we’ve been skipping forward for years now. Well, unless you are still using VHS and audio cassette tapes.

My last vehicle with manual windows was a 1987 Mazda B2200 pickup. I bought it when I was a grad student at Indiana U, and I was on a tight budget. Even then, power windows were a pricey option, although they had first appeared in 1940 on the Packard 180. When I bought my ’91 Dodge Caravan, it came fully loaded. None of that manual stuff for me.

Our lives are filled with stories like this, though. Technology continues its rampant rate of change, and new things are replacing old all the time. It’s just that while we often welcome the new, we forget about the old as it slips into the rear view mirror.

And if you are young enough, you may have missed out completely. Unless you are nostalgically buying and playing vinyl records, you have no idea what a “broken record” is.

So I must ask you, my primarily young students. Have you ever even written a check? I doubt it. I still have a checking account for those rare times I need to make a payment that way, but I recently noticed in my ledger that six months have passed since the last time. There was a time, though, when we used checks for everything, especially at the grocery and other retail shops. That was before debit cards.

Let’s think back to some other things that have all but disappeared from our lives, like pay phones. Remember them? That’s what you used when you were away from home and needed to make a call. While coins were required in the earliest years, eventually they started allowing phone card dialing so you didn’t have to carry a coin purse with you to keep feeding the phone. Thank you, cell phones. You have made our lives easier.

Remember fax machines? I have sent many a fax, but not long ago had need to send one from the office only to find out we no longer have a machine capable of doing so. That’s why we save documents as PDFs and either email or upload them. While we’re talking computing, here’s another one. What about thumb drives? Today we save things to the cloud.

And then there’s music. I was once a huge collector of CDs, amassing more than 1500 of them. But then iTunes started selling songs and albums for download, I quietly switched. Pretty soon, Spotify came around, and the subscription era of music listening arrived. Much the same can be said for DVDs. We rent our content now on streaming services. Oh, and my wife is slowly but surely selling my CDs and DVDs on eBay, because there are collectors of such things. Some have held their value well.

Do any of you remember having a newspaper delivered to your house? Of course, I do, but I quit in spring 2015 after my Golden Retriever destroyed one too many papers. He loved to get the paper at the end of the driveway before dawn, then bring it to the front porch. But he would forget that it was for me, and he would shred it. I got tired of that, and I haven’t had ink smudges on my fingers in nearly a decade now.

There’s one product category that has made a comeback, though, and that is wearables. Around 2010 my students made fun of me for wearing a wrist watch, something I had done since I was five years old. They argued convincingly that my iPhone was a pretty good timepiece, and a watch was redundant. You should have seen the white stripe around my left wrist when I removed my watch for the last time, skin as white as the driven snow. I had to be careful for a while not to let it get sunburned.

Apple, though, reinvented, if you will, the watch, and now millions of people wear them. I don’t. I kind of like not having something on my wrist, and to be honest, I don’t want any more crazy tan lines. You should see my arms, thighs, and ankles, with very distinct lines that may as well have been tattooed. I get a lot of sun from all the walking and hiking I do, and those lines linger all winter long.

I’ll leave this subject for you to ponder now. What are some of the things you have done for the last time, and didn’t even realize it at the time? I bet the list is long, even for my students who are only 20 years old. Your list is only going to get longer.

Get cranking.

Dr “My List Is Very Long” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[0shewrites0]

Hi! So I recently replayed both Lucas and Henrik routes in a really long time and there's something that makes me think.

We all know it goes Henrik wanted to pick Priya at the Disaster Recouping and Lucas was Hope. But, Henrik also likes Lottie, somehow he doesn't even glance at her? And you have Lucas suddenly worried about Priya who barely showed interest in. What happened there?

Now the guy who returns saying they would have chosen MC if they had the chance is a whole other thing. But the part that gets to me is the fact they'd make Lucas emphasize more than once that it's MC he was after. Yet, for some reason seemed to put more effort into how "disappointed" he was and how he doesn't like MC much, to the point he comes off as fake and Henrik comes off as more genuine. Does that make sense?

Like what is "You read things wrong" supposed to mean and why are you talking about a "spark" when you were dissing me five seconds ago?

I do think it had more to do with FB's cluelessness and laziness that seemed like an extra effort to emphasize no one is supposed to be happy they don't get who they want, but then go and insert "I knew you were the one I wanted" into his dialogue.

Like not to be biased, but you're making the man say it more than once and if that was his supposed "initial choice" then I don't see why the "no one is happy" was forced onto him as well, especially if you've been nothing but nice. He just ends up looking like he has a split personality.

Hey there!

So I just replayed s2 and I made Lucas get dumped before Casa Amor. I told him on the night it was announced that he was up for dumping along with Rahim and Rocco that I would’ve wanted him to stay. Then when he got dumped a day later I stayed with him (I took the gem choice) and made it clear that I would’ve coupled up with him if I’d had the chance. But I didn’t kiss him or did anything else that would be considered cheating.

I came back single from Casa Amor while Henrik had obvs switched to Blake, then saved Elijah for Chelsea and Henrik and Blake got dumped.

I’m currently coupled up with Bobby so when Lucas re-enters the villa on day 24 I’m acting really happy to see him again. He kissed me on the cheek and made it very clear that he would’ve chosen me to couple up with if he had stayed in the villa. Then he asked me how it’s going with Bobby and I answered that I was still waiting to be swept off my feet. When the date ended, I pecked him on the cheek and he did too and then we went back.

I did take the roof terrace gem choice later on but - again - didn’t cheat on him and later at night during the party I met him up there as well. He told me he really wanted me but didn’t want to put me on the spot and because I STILL didn’t want to cheat I told him I just wanted to chill, so that’s what we did.

Honestly, I really don’t know where he says stuff like “You read things wrong” or tells MC that he’s disappointed/that he doesn’t like her that much. Maybe you can clarify that? Because it never happened on my route.

Now, here are my thoughts/opinions on everything else. I said it in another post but I’ll repeat it here:

We were always supposed to participate in Operation Nope and kiss Noah so that he’d couple up with us during the disaster recoupling

IF it’s Lucas who’s still in the villa while Henrik’s gone, it really makes a lot of sense for Lucas to pick Priya because Hope is coupled up with Jakub and MC is coupled up with Noah by then. Marisol never interested him and don’t even start with Lottie

BUT I honestly think Lucas’s route wasn’t supposed to go like this in the first place. He was supposed to be “the one that got away” and that’s why they make him emphasise multiple times how he’s come back for MC and for MC alone and that he remembers what she told him the night he was voted to get dumped and whatnot

People are always complaining how it doesn’t make sense for Lucas to be so “pushy” about being intimate with MC when they’re forgetting that 1) he’s not pushy because he accepts your “no” without being pissy or sarcastic about it and without trying to persuade you to do something you don’t want to do and 2) he’s watched the woman of his desire crack on with the boys in the villa for two weeks while he was stuck at home having to WATCH her without being able to do anything more. He’s ACHING to kiss her and act out all his fantasies. And that’s so fucking hot, please.

Remember how he tells Gary on day 5 that he “doesn’t bed everything that walks”? And that still stands true. EVEN at this point. That’s exactly why he later on breaks up with MC, too, if she decides to cheat with him. Because MC knew that and she still let him get his way EVEN THOUGH she was coupled up with someone else at that point. Cheating is such a huge red flag in his eyes. And yes, maybe he’s testing MC here who knows? Maybe it’s bad writing or maybe it’s a mix of all three, i don’t know

Now with Henrik, it’s different. Because Lucas - unlike Henrik - will almost always say that MC is his type while you have to put in effort to get Henrik to say your name. You basically have to reject Lucas all the time. That tells me that Henrik wasn’t supposed to re-enter the villa on day 24. Henrik’s route was meant to be more of a slow burn I reckon. But maybe that’s just my opinion.

Also, why is he picking Priya without so much as a glance at Lottie? Well, that’s crystal clear. HE is actually the one to ask Lottie “trouble in paradise?” the day the dumping on day 7 happens. Lucas, Henrik, MC and Lottie are chilling on the lawn when Gary joins them and Lottie asks him to get her and MC the cuppas he had promised, then proceeds to say “I can’t put my finger on him”. Henrik is highly empathetic and he knows there’s unfinished business between her and Gary; and not just from watching the show (he saw their kiss the night Hannah was dumped, don’t forget that!) He probably also realised that Lottie wasn’t an option BECAUSE she was so hung up on Gary. So why would he force someone into a couple who doesn’t want to be there? Henrik is the opposite of selfish so that would be highly ooc for him. That’s why he then chooses Priya if we’re already in a couple with Noah.

Does that make sense for you? If not, my inbox is always open! It might take me a while to respond to your ask tho <3

[theambitiouswoman]

Hi, I hope you're having a wonderful day 💌 I've been struggling for a while. My closest friend (really, she was like a sister to me and not really a cousin) just hurt me badly by falsely accusing me of something that I didnt do and ganging up on me with the rest of our friends in our little group. I was accused of doing many things that I didn't do and even when I gave my evidence that I genuinely didn't do anything, they still wouldn't believe me. In actuality, it was just the consequences of their actions coming up to bite them and they have no one else to put it on but the person who's been pulling away from the group because they felt left out (me). This happened recently and I've been trying to move on and forgive all of them for what they wrongly accused me of doing and the ugly stuff they said afterwards, but it's tearing me apart how someone who I was so close with from childhood would betray me and abandon me for someone they started getting close to only a few months ago. I've always kept people at a distance for most of my life, but I finally started opening up last year and even more this hear (after being hurt by many), this happens.

I guess, my question is, how do I move on from feeling hurt and betrayed by a close friend? How do I properly forgive them?

Betrayal can be very painful, especially when it comes from someone you trust and care about.

Give yourself time to heal and process your emotions.

You can try writing a letter to the person who betrayed you. Writing a letter is therapeutic because it allows you to express your feelings without interruption.

It’s important to try to understand exactly what it is that you feel upset about. The more specific you can be about what you’re feeling, the easier it will be for you to work through those feelings.

When you’re ready, you can talk to your friend about how they hurt you. Stay composed while you explain how they hurt you and let your friend give a viable explanation and listen. Avoid arguing, but be assertive with your point of view.

Forgiveness is not about forgetting what happened or excusing the behavior of the person who hurt you. It’s about letting go of anger and resentment so that you can move on with your life.

Remember that life is a growing experience.

We can’t shield ourselves from experiences out of fear of getting hurt because we won’t know how to navigate situations when they arise. You will have new friends, and you will lose friends. You deserve good friendships. But you need to use discernment when making new friends and learning who to trust.

Figure out what type of values and characteristics you are looking for in a friend. But always remember that you can’t look for another “you” in others. Everyone is different and disagreements are normal in relationships/friendships.

If the relationship is important you guys will overcome it. Maybe you won’t, but it’s okay. Because you allowed yourself to let someone in and that’s huge!

Life is funny and just because you may outgrow someone one day, doesn’t mean that your paths won’t intertwine at another point. You will also meet loads of new people who are aligned with the version of you that exists at all points in your life. At all the versions that will exist of you 💗

[davycoquette]

What're your favorite books?

Is this real, or something Tumblr just does? 🥴 If one of y'all asked me this, thank you!

My favorite sentimental books are:

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

IMO the most "accessible" book by the author I look up to most. I picked it up in the book store, read it IN the book store, bought it, and have given it to several readers since. It's devastating, quick to consume, beautifully written (McCarthy was a genius), and it never leaves you.

The Call of the Wild by Jack London

Jack London is a top favorite author, too. This book is important to me because as a Girl Who Loved Wolves, it was what I wanted to write when I was a kid. I remember buying it at a book fair when it was waaaay above my reading level - but that never stopped me from trying. I was so proud when I finished it. A few years ago I read through it in one sitting, and laughed at what a simple book it actually is. It's a great adventure novel, though. If anyone enjoys Jack London's (very fun) writing & wants to read about human characters, I recommend Sea Wolf.

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

My introduction to Jane Austen. Not my usual cup of tea, but I cannot put anything she writes down. I feel like this lady really understood the human heart - and she awoke something in me and every other reader in the enemies to lovers department with this novel.

A Separate Peace by John Knowles

Read this one when I was very, very young and will never forget it. The bond between the main character and his friend continues to be a major influence in the way I have my characters interact. The story is heartwrenching. The dark academia vibes are awesome. If you like Saltburn and would still enjoy it with 800% less weird sex stuff (not that I am complaining about the weird sex stuff in Saltburn lmao), I think you'll enjoy this classic novel.

Since those are classics and kind of obvious, I'd like to throw in a few things I've read recently that I'd recommend - not permanent favorites, maybe, but still good reads:

Knockemstiff by Donald Ray Pollock

I do not recommend this one to folks with strong triggers, or anyone who is squeamish about reading some bleak, FUCKED UP shit. It's fucked up, but this dude's writing is stunning. The happenings in this vignette about an Appalachian town are a train wreck; horrifying, but you cannot look away.

Gentlemen of Space: A Novel by Ira Sher

It's been a couple years, but I found this book in a beach house and read the first few chapters there. I was mesmerized by the premise (boy's father is an astronaut who goes to space then cannot get back, to keep it short & simple), and the haunting prospect of the two "communicating." If I recall correctly, it got little attention and poor reviews. While none of the characters particularly interested me, the prose was so good I bought another book by this author. I think this one is aesthetically fascinating and would love to hear others' thoughts on it.

Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry

I am not actually finished with this one, yet! I'm listening to the audio book, and Spotify only lets me listen to so much a month. I am kind of enjoying the fact it's forcing me to slow down to absorb and anticipate the next installments, so I'm not paying extra. Plus, wtf, Spotify. You cost enough money already. Anyway - this book is SO slice of life at times. So wholesome and enjoyable and pleasant. Then, when it isn't wholesome, enjoyable, or pleasant, it's absolutely horrifying. I can't speak to how politically correct it is. It's a Western, published in 1985. There's "cowboys vs Indians" stuff in it. If that's not something you feel you can enjoy reading, I cannot recommend this one. But! if you want to take your time and really indulge in a pretty slow paced but still fascinating Western, this one is brilliantly engaging.

[blackbird-brewster]

Welcome to another instalment of sad trash Jemily head canons! Today's song: 'Light On' by Maggie Rogers.

Rated: General Pairing: JJ/Emily Tags: Angst, open ending WC: 3400 Cross Posted to AO3 - READ HERE

Emily has trouble sleeping. She always has, but her insomnia/night terrors are really bad when she first joins the BAU because it's her first time in active field duty in a long while. and it naturally pings shit about Doyle.

They're coming back from a long case, it's a red eye flight. everyone is sleeping, but Em is just reading. JJ wakes up to use the bathroom and sits back with Em and says something casual like 'oh can't sleep?"

Emily dismisses it like 'haha, no, i never sleep. even if we were already home, i'd probably just be driving around to clear my head'

But JJ actually gets it, she doesn't sleep well most nights either. So she extends a vague invitation like 'well, if you ever find yourself in my neighbourhood in the middle of the night -- just knock. I'm probably up too'

Emily doesn't think anything of this, passes it off as a joke.

But then after Children of the dark, Emily finds herself driving. she's thinking about Carrie and that leads to thinking about Declan and she's NOT going to sleep anytime she thinks of him.

She's been in the car for who knows how long, but ends up gravitating towards JJ's although she doesn't consciously understand why.

And to her surprise, the porch light is on. She parks outside for a minute and remembers the off-hand comment JJ said sometimes last year about always being up late.

But Em realises that was a year ago, it'd be way too weird to knock at 2am now.

So, she goes home.

>>> More Below the Cut

The very next month, Pen gets shot. Emily is worried sick after leaving the hospital. But she can also still feel JJ's hand in hers even though that was three hours ago and that scares her in ways that have recently become more conscious to her, even if she's still trying to deny it.

She goes for a drive.

She winds up in front of JJ's again -- and the porch light is on.

This time, Emily actually parks. She gets as far as the front step before realising she's being an idiot and chickens out.

JJ has never said anything about this stupid vague offer to her ever since that ONE time, it'd be WILD for Emily to show up now.

She goes home and tries to forget about the whole thing.

months go by. Em finds herself in front of JJ's every few weeks in her usual night drive. The light is on every time, but she can never work up the courage to knock.

But in that same period, Emily has finally admitted to herself just how much she likes JJ. They're inseparable at work, she thinks JJ is the most amazing woman she's ever known.

And Emily knows she's hard crushing, but there's no way in hell she's going to tell JJ any of that

The team gets called to Miami.

Will is there. This random redneck guy from New Orleans who JJ laughed about the entire case the year prior. She'd tell Emily how he was hitting on her and stuff and the two of them thought he was so grating.

But now he's here. In Miami.

And the way JJ greets him -- something about it makes Emily uncomfortable.

She watches them together and it's not hard to see what's happening. At some point after the case in New Orleans, they obviously got together.

In a form of self-preservation, Emily pushes JJ towards him the whole time they're on the case. She's trying to get JJ to admit the truth.

But when it's confirmed, when JJ does go after him and make their relationship known - -Emily feels sick

She knew she had a crush, but the moment she sees JJ kissing Will at the end of the case -- she realises its SO much more than a crush.

When the team gets back, Emily is driving all night. She goes through half a tank of gas, just mindlessly driving so she doesn't have to focus on how much this HURTS.

She finds herself in front of JJ's, like she always does.

The porch light is on.

As if she doesn't have control of her own body, she parks.

She gets out.

She walks to the door.

Her hand is halfway to knocking when she pulls away.

She can't do this to JJ, not RIGHT after JJ told everyone she's in a relationship.

She's already turned to leave when the door opens.

"Em?"

She turns around and finds JJ standing there. God, how is she THAT beautiful at 3am??

"I thought you'd never actually knock," JJ says. "Come in."

Emily follows her inside and JJ points to the front window that faces the street. There's a big comfy chair there with a side table full of books.

JJ says, "I've been sitting here every night for over a year. Just waiting for you to actually do it. I left the light on, just hoping one day you'd knock. But you never have."

"No, I haven't." Emily mutters. She's so embarrassed. JJ has SEEN how many times Emily has parked outside of her house and never done anything about it.

JJ smiles and nods kind of solemnly. Of course she knows why Emily's never had the courage. She knows Emily well enough, she knows that Emily likes her. And truthfully, JJ has liked her back for even longer. But Emily never made a move, so JJ thought it was all in her head.

JJ makes them tea, they talk about the case, they talk about the weather, politics, current events, they talk about EVERYTHING except the one thing they both KNOW needs talking about.

Even then, neither of them want to name their feelings.

Emily doesn't leave until sunrise. And for once, she sleeps soundly. She's never gotten better sleep in her adult life.

Over the following weeks, she and JJ have this little middle of the night routine.

And every time Emily goes home, she sleeps for a solid eight hours without night terrors.

It's a miracle.

Then, Will shows up while the team is on a case. He's mad, telling JJ she shouldn't be in the field.

And Emily realises suddenly, that although she's known that JJ was in a relationship with him ever since the case in Miami -- in all the nights they've stayed up together, JJ has never brought him up. And it basically made Emily forget about him completely.

But here he is now, so it's hard to ignore.

It's even harder to ignore their relationship when he outs that JJ is pregnant.

She must have known for a while, Emily thinks. She must have known she was pregnant all those nights they've been staying up talking.

And it makes Emily sick. The unrequited love she's been trying to compartmentalise consumes her and she finds it impossible to think about anything else.

So she goes driving.

She finds herself naturally heading towards JJ's and there's a very big part of her that is SO ready to tell JJ to leave Will. To leave him, because he's not good enough for her. She doesn't have to stay with him JUST because she's pregnant.

Emily is more than ready to admit she loves her. To tell her she'll help in any way JJ needs, if only JJ could give her the chance.

But when she gets there -- the porch light is off.

She sits there, staring at the house, deciding whether or not to knock, but ultimately, she takes the light as a clear indicator this was a mistake.

She goes home. she doesn't sleep. she never sleeps if she hasn't talked to JJ.

Time goes by, it gets less painful to be around JJ now that Will's moved to DC to be with her properly.

Some nights, Emily still finds herself outside the house.

But the light is always off.

She never knocks.

She pushes away how much she loves JJ. She tries to ignore it, to forget it, to get over it.

But how can she when she's pretty sure JJ is the only person in the whole world Emily want's to be with for the rest of her life.

It's gruelling, painful, but Emily is the master of masking her true feelings. So she never says anything.

She never knocks.

She never sleeps.

And years pass. It's not a good routine, but it is a routine. She's so used to her insomnia, it doesn't bother her much. She stops driving by JJ's house eventually, there's no reason to. It just makes her feel worse, so she stops driving to that side of town when she's night driving.

JJ gets reassigned and it makes it easier at least. Emily doesn't have to see her every day. She misses her at work, but it's actually a blessing in disguise because it finally allows her time to get over her feelings.

Emily already wasn't sleeping, so when she realises Doyle is back, it's not too much of a change in her routine to stay up nights on end.

She doesn't drive though.

She spends her nights sitting in front of her door with a gun in hand.

Waiting for him, because she knows he'll be coming for her.

Even if she was out driving instead of just waiting -- it's not like she could talk to JJ about any of this. The team don't know about Doyle or Lauren or Valhalla.

It makes Emily realise that for how much she and JJ have talked, they really never said anything to each other.

Nothing of true substance. And that realisation hurts, because it's jsut another reminder that Emily's feelings have ALWAYS been unrequited.

Any gesture or chat or subtext she's built up in her mind, any hint that JJ might love her too, none of it's real. JJ doesn't even truly know anything about Emily.

Emily realises NO ONE knows her, not really. She's been on the team for four years and she's never let them truly get to know her. It wasn't on purpose, she's just so good at building walls, she doesn't even realise she's built them in the first place.

Before Doyle can come for her, she comes for him first.

Everything goes wrong.

She very nearly loses her life, but by some miracle, she makes it.

JJ escorts her to Paris for Emily to go into hiding, at least until Doyle's arrested.

It's the first time they've spent any real time together since JJ left the BAU.

This time, they do talk though. They really talk and Emily learns so much about JJ and to her own surprise, she tells JJ plenty about herself too.

They still don't talk about their true feelings, but they do connect in a way they never had before.

In Paris, Emily doesn't drive, but she walks. She walks at night to clear her head. It's never quiet in Paris, not really, there's always people bustling around. It's loud in ways DC wasn't, similar, but different.

But she walks, because she doesn't drive and she tries to clear her head most nights.

But she doesn't sleep.

The day Hotch calls her back to DC, the day she sees the team for the first time since they buried her. The first time she sees JJ since Paris, Emily feels so lost.

She doesn't sleep, so she drives.

She ends up at JJ's house.

And she parks, because she sees the light on.

Now that she knows where JJ's reading chair is, she eyes that window and she sees the curtains move.

She knows JJ must be waiting up for her, even though she's a mom now, she's got Will now, she should be sleeping -- but for whatever reason, she's not.

She's sitting there with the light on, just waiting for Emily.

Emily doesn't get out. She can't.

She leaves, goes home, and doesn't sleep.

Six months go by and she never sleeps. Everything is so loud and constant and conflicting and hard.

Her job never felt hard before. She's a great profiler, but ever since she came back, it's all wrong. It's difficult to focus on anything other than the fact everyone looks at her like she's a ghost, because to them, she is. To them, she always will be, in some regard.

She already wanted to leave, but JJ agreeing to marry Will was the deciding factor.

After the reception, Emily finds herself driving. She goes to JJ's, even though it's stupid, because it's JJ's wedding night. What does Emily plan to achieve tonight?

She's surprised, conflicted mostly, when she sees the light on.

It should feel comforting, to know JJ's still there for her, to know JJ's still waiting up for her. But it doesn't feel like that.

It hurts. God it hurts so bad Emily's half convinced she's actually having a heart attack.

It takes her ten entire minutes to recover enough to be able to drive again.

She gets home and doesn't sleep.

She stares at an email from Clyde. An email she's been avoiding for a week now.

She sends her reply and in doing so, she accepts a job in London.

When Hotch calls her to tell her JJ is missing, Emily is on a flight in an hour.

She barely makes it in time, but she does make it in time.

She stays in DC for a week, just to be sure JJ's alright -- even though Emily knows first hand, JJ will never be alright again after what she endured.

Emily finds herself driving her rental car at night. Haunting the same streets she's spent so many nights driving down.

She winds up at JJ's and she tells herself it's just because she's worried about her.

Emily's been living in London for nearly two years now, she's a different woman now. She's gotten over those feelings about JJ, she's really moved on.

But there she is. Right back in front of JJ's house in the middle of the night.

She's only hand surprised to see the light on.

She's a different woman now. She's braver, or she likes to think she is.

So she parks, she goes to the door, she knocks.

JJ answers and they sit in the kitchen all night long.

And when the sun rises, Emily leaves and goes back to her hotel. And she sleeps.

Not that she knows it, but JJ sleeps too. It's actually the first time in two years that JJ really sleeps through the night. Which is unexpected considering what she's just gone through.

But it's true. She sleeps.

Another two years. Emily comes back for a case and she stays an extra handful of days to catch up with the team.

It's really hard for her. Everyone asks how she's doing, is she happy in London, what's it like being the bigshot running an entire Interpol office?

She has a flight back to London at the first crack of dawn, so she doesn't sleep beforehand, in hopes she'll sleep on the plane.

She finds herself outside of JJ's house. There's no light, why would there be?

She and JJ don't really keep in touch anymore. They've grown apart like adults tend to do.

Emily gets on her flight and she spends the next eight hours not sleeping.

The next time she comes back, it's specifically to help out at the BAU.

JJ seems genuinely happy to see her and they go for a drink, they catch up in the same way they used to -- they talk without saying anything. But just spending time with JJ again is plenty for Emily. She missed this, she missed her best friend.

And late that night, Emily finds herself driving. Seeing JJ started to kick up old emotions Emily thought were long gone. And her head is so loud, she just needs to try and clear it. She's sure this feeling will pass, it's just her nerves about seeing the team again after so long.

She drives. She doesn't even pretend like she's heading anywhere other than JJ's house.

She's also not surprised when the light's off. Why would JJ be waiting for her, when Emily's barely a visitor here?

Emily can't possibly know that Will hates it when JJ leaves the light on. Early on, when he first moved in with her, he made a habit of flipping it off every night.

He mentioned it to her at the time, but she said it was just a habit, since she was used to coming home from cases at all times of night. And it was nice to have the light on to welcome her home. (It's a lie, but he believes it)

He always turns it off though, reminding her she doesn't need the light when he's right there to welcome her home now.

There would be random periods of time where she'd leave it one sometimes and he'd always flip it off. It was such a mundane thing, neither of them talked about it. Will just accepted it as one of those quirks that you get used to when you live with someone who does something out of habit and over time, it just became the routine. JJ would leave the light on randomly, he would turn it off.

It was so mundane, it's not like they talked about it. It was just about as normal as JJ closing the toilet seat when Wil left it up.

Suddenly -- Emily's here to stay though. She's taking up UC without warning and the team i shocked, but more so than anyone -- JJ is shocked.

She's shocked because this change stirs up something she had forgotten long ago. Feelings. It stirs feelings about Emily, about all the nights they stayed up talking. And it terrifies her.

She's got a whole life with Will and their two kids now. She cannot be feeling things for Emily.

She doesn't sleep anymore. She tosses and turns and spends most nights going downstairs to read in her chair.

She always leaves the light on when she does, some part of her just hoping Emily will turn up and take the choice out of JJ's hands. She wishes Emily would knock and finally, finally, talk to her and ACTUALLY say something. Because JJ knows she's never going to make the first move, not after all these years.

She never sees Emily's headlights though. Every night she sits and reads in her chair in the front window, with the light on, no one ever drives by.

The thing is -- Emily's a different person now. She loves being UC and she's good at it. It doesn't feel hard like it did after Paris.

And she actually sleeps now. Sleeps through the night with very little night terrors or issues. She owes that to years of therapy and the miracle of SSRIs.

She has no need to drive at night anymore.

Emily has her job, her career, and every once in a while, she'll date someone for a short stint to relieve her loneliness. Those relationships are only ever a temporary fix, she can never fully commit herself to any one person.

Not when she's known for years, that JJ is the only person in the whole world Emily would ever consider being with for the rest of her life. Not that it matters, that ship sailed too many years ago and Emily is okay with that. She's accepted her solitude and in actuality, she sleeps much better on her own anyway, so at least she has that. 

She and JJ find a new way to exist around each other. Mostly, they give each other a wide berth. They don't talk about why, but on some level, they both understand why it's difficult to have Emily back here, back here after so many years of late nights and talking where they never said what they meant.

And for the most part, it works for them. There are still times where one or both of them hint at the truth under the lies. But they never name it outright. They only ever acknowledge it through lingering glances, or vague conversations about the 'what-ifs' and 'if-onlys' of life.

But -- sometimes, after a really difficult case, JJ leaves her porch light on. Just in case. 

[rottenbrainstuff]

Star Wars rant:

Oh you guys

I watch documentaries while I do stuff - I’ve been watching Disney documentaries recently. The things I’ve just seen! You guys! You guys! You are not going to rewrite history that I still remember.

I am hearing people say all kind of crazyass things about what Disney did with Star Wars and where it made mistakes. You guys this wasn’t that long ago. I have heard someone say the reason that the rise of skywalker was bad was because the last Jedi went so weird with the writing that the third movie had nowhere to go - what! I don’t buy that for five seconds. As soon as TLJ came out, fans were discussing ideas for what we thought was going to happen next and no one had trouble creating outlines and ideas that all sounded a million times better than the shit we ended up getting. Please don’t blame TRoS on anyone but JJ Abrams and Chris Terrio! I even saw the Trevorrow script and look, it’s not amazing, but even that is better than what we got. (Slightly)

I heard someone say Star Wars fans were disappointed in TFA when it was released and we were just waiting to see what the next movie was going to be like. Y’all are trying to act like you knew what was going to happen in the end and you were smart and skeptical. That is completely fucking wrong. There WERE some hardcore gatekeeper fans who were disappointed it wasn’t down to their exacting checklist of things they wanted, and some folks wanted the new trilogy to follow the EU books. (And guess what happened when they made a movie to try and please the gatekeeping fans? We got TRoS) By and large, the fans were NOT disappointed. Are you kidding me??? We were ecstatic. Everyone at the cons wanted to talk about that movie, and everyone suddenly loved Star Wars again.

And I have actually heard with my own two ears some say that ohhhhh George Lucas had an outline of ideas for the sequel trilogies, but Disney threw them in the bin and didn’t use them, if we had just followed George’s master plan, we could have had a good sequel - my god - I knew it was only a matter of time before I heard someone say this. You are either: absolute goddamned hypocrites! You are the same people who sang “George Lucas Raped my Childhood” after the prequel trilogy came out! You cried louder than anyone that George Lucas ruined Star Wars, and NOW you want to walk that back and pretend like you actually liked him this whole time? Or else: you are too young to remember the absolute franchise killer that the prequel movies were, how utterly scorned they were at the time, you never read George Lucas’ original script for a New Hope (and btw that movie was a mess - the only reason it is as good as it is is because he had a great editor), you have never read any of his other outlines for things and realized how fucking stupid they are and how lucky we are he did NOT end up making anything more. The whole problem with the prequels was that George had too much control and not enough input from other people to keep things sensible. Oh my god no. No, no, no. Can we not say that? Ever? That’s like being served a dog turd for supper and saying that instead we should have eaten the moldy month old Kraft dinner in the forgotten Tupperware. Let’s not pretend the moldy Kraft dinner isn’t also nasty.

I can’t believe I’m hearing this, people just making up junk years later. Did you all seriously forget already? It wasn’t even that long ago!

[cinnaminsvga]

omg so i saw your account pop up on that bit at the side with accounts to follow and stuff and immediately was thrown back

i don't know how long ago it was actually but based on the fact I've recently revived my own writing account after like 3 years away and forgetting tumblr even exists, but it's been at least that long since I last saw your account but immediate like nostalgia

this sounds terrible but i genuinely can't remember what exactly I read of yours (other than probably most of it back in the day) but I just remember you were one of my fave writers, i don't really read bts anymore because i'm up seventeen's ass these days but ima have to go through your masterlist and reread stuff for the memories now

im pretty sure that there was one specific fic series you wrote that you made group chats for on kakao maybe, i was there for it i just have terrible memory. now watch it turn out it wasn't even you that did that 🥴

i actually meant to send an ask last night when I saw your account and followed you (i think i used to follow you from my personal but idk) but it was late so I thought "hey let's wait until tomorrow when you can string together more cohesive sentences, yeah?" and then this shit show happened. but at least im not actually screaming at you in this ask like i probably would've last night

anyway, just wanted to just idek just sort of reminisce a lil and tell you that it made me really happy to see your account after these years even if you're not always active, it's nice to see that you still pop back now and then 💖

(I apologise for the mess of this. i'd say im usually more eloquent but that's a fucking lie, im a complete mess all the damn time <3)

WOAGH this was an unexpected letter in my inbox i'll tell you what (a pleasant surprise!) but hello hello welcome back and thanks for taking the time to send a message after all these years :D the tumblr algorithm, in all its mystery and dysfunctionality, sometimes makes little fun things happen like this lol

judging by your description, that fic series you're talking about is very likely "the lonely hearts club", which i suppose is an smau rather than a fic but yenno... it was something alright... if you were there during the peak of it, when i had kakao group chats for it... then it must have been 6 years since youve been around these parts (i posted that in 2018!! aint that a strange thing!!)

also, i appreciate all and every screaming ask sent my way HAHA this was actually very fun to read because like you said, i'm not very active on this blog, but getting messages once in a while is still a sweet treat!! nice to know that strangers on the internet just feel... compelled to talk to me, yenno?? especially you, who had somehow stumbled onto my patch of land by some algorithmic miracle :D it's nice reminiscing with ya!! if you really were here back in 2018, then you've known me a long time (even if you forgot most of it HAHA but i dont blame ya... my memory is pretty foggy even on a good day) so thanks for making a short stop my way <3