#The Grinder (from the sky)

[bracketsoffear]

The Grinder (from the sky) (Cone Poem) It’s a song about feeding people into a meat grinder that fell from the sky as a form of worship.

Timothy (The Buoys) "Timothy" is about three trapped miners, waiting for rescue with no food. When they escape, only two men are left. The song and the narrator dance around the subject, but there's no real sublety in the music and lyrics. The narrator can say that he doesn't remember, but he knows what he did. The Buoys' record label was not going to help promote their music, so they decided to release a single that was distrubing and controversial enough to generate its own buzz. It worked, because the subject matter is so unexpected in this sort of pop music. The circumspect nature of the lyrics also forces the listers to figure out what happened to Timothy themselves, which helps create a dawning sense of horror and disbelief. I think that this very personal story of cannibalism and some of the descriptions in the lyrics [Joe said that he would sell his soul / For just a piece of meant] [My stomach was full as it could be / And nobody ever got around / To finding Timothy] make this song feel like The Flesh.

[so-very-sedated]

i realize replacing suicide jokes with increasingly looney-toons-esque deaths is still not that great for my mental health, but i refuse to stop on account of the bit

[dismalflo]

The Archive

Remus Lupin x Fem!reader ✩ 7k words

summary: After starting work as a museum guide, you get to know the brooding barista in the café.

cw: strangers to friends to lovers, a bit grumpy remus x sunshine reader, fluff, one mention of vomit, reference to a weird/creepy co-worker

The bus is loud and crowded, typical for a Monday morning, but the quiet thrill of starting a new job still flutters in your chest. It lifts you above it all, leaving you untouched by the noise and motion around you. Even with the sky draped in grey, you feel sunny.

The bus comes to a stop a few hundred metres from the museum with hissing breaks. The clouds haven’t moved; they still hang heavy and indifferent above the city, but you’re buoyed by a quiet sense of purpose.

Week two. You’re still learning the way your voice carries in the marble echo of the Ancient Cultures hall, still fumbling to remember if it’s the 5th or 6th century when someone asks about the mosaic floor. But you’re getting there. You like the way the museum smells in the morning, like paper and stone, a little musty, like it’s still half-asleep. You like the rhythm of it. Predictable. Solid. A place with weight.

Your feet know where to take you now. Down the staff hallway, past the security desk, a nod to the sleepy guard who never remembers your name, and then the turn into the little tucked-away café, the archive, with its blackboard menu and always-fogged windows. You’d discovered the free coffee perk on your first day  and it’s quickly become the small joy you look forward to each morning. A soft landing before the day begins.

Except, this morning, the usual barista – a blonde girl with star tattoos on her fingers – isn’t at the counter. Instead, there’s someone new. Well, new to you.

He’s tall, lanky, with a sweater pushed up to his elbows and a couple of rings that flash silver when he adjusts the grinder. His hair is the kind of soft brown that probably curls if he lets it, and his face, there’s something unreadable in the set of it, even handsome as it is. A few pale scars slash across his cheek and nose, faint but distinct. Not recent. You try not to stare.

You clear your throat quietly, stepping up to the counter. “Hi.”

He glances up, eyes warm-toned and quick. “Morning. What can I get you?”

Your routine wants to blurt out vanilla latte, but his voice is lower than you expect with a little gravel in it and now your brain’s off script. You manage to get the words out, but with half a second of lag.

He just nods and starts moving. Efficient. No wasted motion. There’s a practiced rhythm to it, like it’s all muscle memory. He doesn’t speak again until he’s back with the cup, reaching for the till. “That’ll be—”

You hold up your lanyard, the little plastic card still stiff from disuse. “Staff.”

His gaze flicks to it. “Oh.” He leans slightly, reading your name. “Are you new?”

“Yeah.” You smile, trying to match his neutrality, but you know your grin probably tips too friendly. “I started last week. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

There’s a pause, one breath longer than it needs to be. Then a tight smile. 

“Remus.”

And just like that, he’s turning back to the machine, rinsing something out, already done with the conversation.

You blink, standing there with your cup cradled in both hands. Okay then.

Sliding into your usual seat by the window, you sip the coffee - it’s better than last week - whilst sneaking a look back at him as he wipes down the counter. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t glance your way once.

Grumpy, you decide, watching him. Great. What did you do, breathe too loud?

You exhale into the drink. Maybe he’s just not a morning person. Or maybe he’s like the museum – slow to warm up, full of quiet corners.

Still, part of you hopes he’ll say something tomorrow. Even a hi would do.

You finish your drink, the cup warm in your hands, and head off for the start of your shift, back to the echoing halls and curious strangers. But the thought of him lingers, your attention captured by a stranger.

Everything goes on like that for a while.

Every morning, your routine holds. You nod to the guard, who now thinks your name is “Eloise,” but you don’t have the heart to correct him,  push through the café door with its quiet jingle, and find Remus already behind the counter. Always there before you. Always quiet. Always efficient.

The blonde girl reappeared once, briefly, but only to drop something off and vanish again, leaving Remus in charge. You’d hoped she might make conversation. Or at least act as a buffer. But no, it’s just him now. And you.

Your greetings are consistent, cheerful. Predictable, even.

“Morning, Remus.”

“How are you today?”

“Busy morning so far?”

“Did you get a break yet?”

Each one is met with a version of the same reply: a nod, sometimes a “fine,” sometimes just a half lifted brow that could mean anything. You get a thank you if you say something like “have a nice day,” but it’s clipped, almost like it costs him.

Still, you keep asking. Keep smiling. Keep showing up with soft eyes and the same friendly tone, like politeness might one day wear him down. 

You start noticing things. The way he always double-checks the milk temperature. The way he loosens one ring absentmindedly when the café is empty. The way he looks at the sky for a second before opening the blinds.

Week four. He hands you your drink, and when your fingers brush against his – purely by accident, you're sure – he doesn’t flinch away. He just glances at your hand, then back at you.

Week five. He asks, “Do you work in that old tile room?”

You blink. It’s the most he’s said to you in a sentence.

“The mosaic floor, yeah,” you say. “Ancient Cultures.”

“Thought so.” He looks down at the counter as he wipes it. 

You leave that day flushed, heart pattering like a schoolgirl with a stupid crush.

After that, his answers get longer. Not much. Not always. But enough to notice.

Some days, you learn things about him in scraps.

He used to work evenings somewhere else. He hates the music they play here now (“Too jangly”). He doesn’t like sweet drinks but will sneak half a biscuit if the blonde-haired girl (Marlene)  leaves them on the staff table. 

His eyes are a hazel that looks green in the café’s light, and when he smiles it’s a small, barely there thing. 

He still never asks anything personal. Never lingers. But he’s warming, you think.

Week seven.

The museum has settled into its summer rhythm, a slow, humming drone of tourists and school groups, all trailing sun cream and questions. You’re learning to smile through the heat, through the endless questions about where things are,  even though your exhibit is half a wing away from what they want. You ignore that one co-worker, Josh, who has made it his mission to make work so much harder than it needs to be. But it’s easier somehow lately. The rhythm of it. The known things.

And then there’s Remus.

You come in with your usual nod to the security guard – still calling you Eloise – and push open the café door. The bell chimes above your head in its usual sleepy way. You step into the warmth and scent of dark roast and milk foam, already sliding your lanyard from your pocket.

There’s a line today, longer than usual, and you join it without thinking, eyes on your phone, thumb tapping through unread texts.

“Yours is at the end,” a voice calls, smooth and unhurried.

You glance up.

Remus isn’t even looking at the current customer. He’s looking at you, wiping his hands on a towel like he’s been waiting. He tilts his chin toward the side counter, where a white cup already waits with its lid on, your usual blue marker initials scrawled across the sleeve. Still steaming.

You blink. “Wait–really?”

“Vanilla latte.” He says it with a shrug. Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just take a quiet little hammer to your morning.

People behind you are shifting, someone’s tapping a foot, but for a second you just stare at him.

“Thanks,” you manage, a little too high-pitched, and scurry around the line and out of people's way.

You cradle the cup like it might shatter if you hold it wrong. Still hot. Still yours.

When you glance back, he’s already returned to the espresso machine, sleeves pushed up, rings catching the soft overhead light. But as he slides a shot glass under the portafilter, he glances at you. A flick of his gaze.

Then, the smallest twitch of a smile.

And just like that, the air feels warmer than the coffee in your hands.

You retreat to your usual window seat, hiding behind your cup, heart thrumming somewhere in your throat. You just sit there, quietly stunned, sipping the drink he made for you before you walked in. Like he knew you’d come. Like he looked forward to it.

You want to say something. To go back to the counter and offer something casual, “That was really sweet” or “So you do have a heart under all that broodiness.” But you don’t.

Instead, you watch him work. Watch the careful way he knocks the grounds from the portafilter, the way he leans into the counter when no one’s ordering, thumb worrying the edge of a napkin.

You wonder if he’ll do it again tomorrow

-

The café quiets, the hush of espresso machines powered down, the last clink of a cup into the dish tray, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Remus moves through the space with the same muted precision he always does, wiping down the counters in wide, practiced strokes. There's a quiet satisfaction in it, the methodical wrap-up.

It’s muscle memory by now. Stack the ceramic cups, flip the chairs, sweep the corners, start locking everything up. His body knows what to do even while his mind wanders.

He doesn’t know why he made your coffee ahead of time.

He told himself it was efficient and you always come in around the same time anyway, like clockwork. A latte with syrup. Easy. It’s not a big thing.

But it sits oddly in his chest, the memory of your face when you saw the cup. The way your voice went slightly wobbly when you said “thanks,” like he’d surprised you.

He tells himself he didn’t mean to watch you the entire time you sat by the window, fingers curled around the cup.

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself, rinsing the last milk pitcher with a little too much force. The water splashes up onto his sweater sleeve. Of course.

He dries his hands, tosses the towel into the laundry bin, and flicks the back lights off. The place dims to a hush, that same familiar closing-time gloom. It’s a comfort, mostly.

Until he gets to the cubby room.

It’s a small alcove off the hallway outside of the café, half locker room, half staff closet. His bag waits in its usual spot, slouched and tired-looking. He shrugs his coat off the hook, ready to leave, already half-thinking about which book he might try and read tonight, but then–

He freezes.

A sound.

Barely there, muffled. A sharp inhale, the kind people try to bury. Then another. A stifled breath, wet at the edges. Like someone’s trying to cry quietly.

His jaw tenses before he even fully processes it.

He should leave. It’s late. It’s probably someone from exhibitions or marketing. Whoever it is deserves their privacy. He could just grab his stuff and go, let them have their moment, pretend he didn’t hear a thing.

But he doesn’t move.

There’s something about the sound that sticks under his ribs. He knows that kind of crying, the kind you push down until it erupts in the wrong place, where someone might hear. The kind that only slips out when you’ve kept too much in, for too long.

“Shit,” he mutters, exhaling sharply through his nose. Then, like the world's most reluctant ghost, he drifts toward the staff toilet door.

He knocks once, soft. The kind of knock you can ignore if you want to.

A silence. Then a rustling behind the door. He almost hopes they don’t answer.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost gruff. “You alright in there?”

Another silence. A breath. Then, to his slow dawning horror – your voice.

“I’m fine.”

You are absolutely not fine.

And now he’s stuck. Standing in a narrow hallway with your voice cracking on the other side of the door, and the memory of how happy you looked this morning when he handed you that cup.

Remus’s heart stutters painfully in his chest. Your voice cracking makes his stomach twist tight with something sharp and unfamiliar. 

“Y/N?” he says, his voice softer this time, like saying your name might somehow soothe the raw edges in the air between the door and him.

There’s a long pause. Then the door creaks open slowly.

You step out, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to fold yourself small enough to disappear. Your face is blotchy, tears streaked down both cheeks, and your eyes are red-rimmed, desperate to look anywhere but at him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely more than a breath. “I didn’t mean for— I thought... Go ahead.” You try to step past him, head bowed, like you’re ashamed for letting yourself break in the first place.

But before you can slip away, Remus steps forward, blocking your path without a word. His hands clench into fists at his sides, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “What?” he asks quietly, but there’s something fierce in his eyes now, a sudden urgency. “No. I’m not leaving you like this. What’s wrong?”

You blink, the shame flickering against the tiredness in your eyes. You open your mouth to answer but nothing comes out for a moment. The weight of the silence between you is thick, almost suffocating.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making your voice catch before you manage to say, almost reluctantly, “Do you… know Josh?”

Remus’s jaw tightens, and something flickers in his eyes; something fierce, protective. He folds his arms, stepping aside just enough to gesture toward the bench by the lockers. “Yeah,” he says low, voice rough around the edges. “Enough said. He’s a right sod. What did he do?”

You drop onto the bench, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the day has finally caught up with you. For a long moment, you just stare at your hands, fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve, before you start to explain. Your voice is quiet, but steady.

“Josh… he’s made working here a nightmare. He’s always around, hovering where he’s not wanted, acting like he owns the place even though he barely knows anything about the exhibits. And worse–he’s gross. Like, constantly making weird comments, and he tries to make me feel stupid.” You let out a bitter laugh that barely hides the hurt. “He acts like he’s smarter than everyone, even though he clearly doesn’t know his stuff. I mean, I work in my area – I know what I’m talking about – but he’s like this constant shadow, trying to undermine me. Like if he can’t have control, he’ll just make things miserable for everyone.”

Remus’s eyes darken, and his hands clench again, fingers tapping against his thighs. “That’s bullshit. No one should have to deal with that crap, especially not here.”

You nod, grateful for the sudden flare of his anger. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, keep my head down, but some days it’s just… too much.”

Remus hesitates, then slides down onto the bench beside you, the scrape of his jeans against the chipped paint breaking the silence. His voice is softer now, cautious but edged with concern. “Have you talked to Mindy about it? The HR girl?”

You shake your head, shoulders trembling just slightly. “No. I didn’t want to kick up a fuss. I figured it’d just blow over… or maybe I’m just being too sensitive.”

He scoots a little closer, the space between your thighs shrinking until they’re almost touching. His knee bumps yours. “You’re not being too sensitive. And if you don’t say something, he’s just going to keep on doing it. It’s not right.”

You hum in reply, a soft, unsure sound. You lean your head against the cool locker behind you, taking a shaky breath as the tremors in your body slow. The pressure of his presence, quiet and steady, feels nice.

The silence stretches between you both, thick but gentle, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Your chest rises and falls unevenly at first, the raw ache behind your ribs dulling little by little. 

After a few minutes, his voice comes, low and careful, almost hesitant like he’s testing the air. “I’ll have to make Josh’s drinks even worse than I do now.”

You scoff, opening your eyes to find him watching you with a hint of dry humour flickering in his gaze.

 “Do you really do that?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, a little flush creeping into his cheeks, and shifts so his body angles more toward you, less guarded. “Yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher than usual but soft underneath. “Of course I do. People get the coffee they deserve.”

You laugh then, a short, genuine laugh that feels warm. It breaks through the tension in your chest, lightening the air around you. The sound seems to ease something in Remus, too, because his usual stoic expression softens, and you catch a flicker of relief in his eyes.

“Why do you think your coffee is always so good?” he adds, a teasing note threading through the words.

Remus watches you laugh – properly laugh – for what might be the first time. It softens something in his chest that’s been tight for weeks, like a string pulled too taut. The sound of it settles somewhere behind his ribs, where he knows it’ll stay longer than it should.

You're still smiling as you shake your head, brushing your sleeve across your cheek. “I thought you were just… good at your job.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, almost a laugh himself, but his eyes don’t leave yours when he says, “No. You’re just lovely.”

The words land in the air like something delicate. Not a throwaway. Not a joke. Just soft and honest and entirely intentional.

Your breath catches.

You look down, smiling before you can stop it. It’s a helpless sort of smile that blooms despite the redness in your eyes. You tuck your hair behind your ear in that absent, nervous way he’s come to recognise.

“Thank you, Remus,” you say softly. And the way you say his name twists something sweet and aching in his gut.

You glance at your watch then, eyes widening. “Shit. I have to go – or I’ll miss the bus and be stuck wandering the halls till morning.”

You stand a little too quickly, brushing off invisible dust from your coat. “But… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

You give him a grateful look and then you’re gone, your footsteps fading down the hallway.

-

The air outside hits colder than you expect. The evenings dropped fast, draping the sky in a dull blue wash, and the street lamps blink on with a hum as you walk to the bus stop.

You shove your hands deep into your pockets and try not to replay the whole thing in your head. But of course you do.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not here. Not where people could hear. Not where he could hear.

God, Remus.

He hadn’t turned away. Hadn’t offered you a useless platitude or made a weird joke or said oh no no no please don’t cry in that awkward way people do when they don’t know what to say. He’d just… sat there. Like it was fine. Like you weren’t making a mess of yourself.

And then that voice with its low, gravel-edge, “you’re just lovely.”

You groan quietly, ducking your head.

Great. Now you’re the girl who cried in the staff toilets and got soft-eyed over her barista. Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe he says that sort of thing to people all the time. He probably doesn’t.

Still, your brain itches with doubt. What if he thinks you’re too much? That you made it weird?

You scuff your boot against the pavement and watch a wet leaf stick to the toe.

Too late now. You’ll have to face him again tomorrow. You always do.

You let out a slow breath and step onto the bus.

He probably doesn’t think you’re a freak.

You hope.

-

You’re early but this time it’s not because of excitement or routine. This morning, it’s avoidance.

You skip the café.

You push through the museum’s staff entrance, still shrugging off your coat, and march straight past the security desk before Old Greg can butcher your name again (“Morning, Eloise!”). Your steps echo down the polished hallway, heart thudding with a strange mix of regret and mortification.

You should go in. That’s the truth. You want to, if only to prove you’re not the kind of person who has one crying episode and then pretends it didn’t happen. But the thought of seeing Remus again, of meeting those steady, unreadable eyes after sobbing in front of him makes your stomach roll in embarrassment.

So instead, you beeline for your exhibit.

The mosaic gallery is still dim when you get there, the lights on their early-morning timer delay, casting long shadows over the tiled floor.

You throw yourself into prep work you don’t need to do.

Brochure restocking. Cleaning the display cases, even though the cleaners already did it. You even re-label the “Unknown Roman Male Bust” for the fourth time, aligning the plaque a single millimeter straighter, because apparently today that matters.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine. This is fine. He probably didn’t think about it again. Probably chalked it up to an awkward one-off. If anything, maybe you did him a favour by not showing up.

Still, you feel… wrong. Like you’ve knocked something out of balance, a rhythm you didn’t even realise was holding you steady until it faltered.

Your first tour group filters in, three parents, two bored teenagers, and a kid who’s far too interested in whether anyone’s ever died in the museum. You manage it fine. You’re getting good at this. The words come smoothly now, practiced without being robotic, your voice echoing just right off the marble as you explain how these mosaics were lifted from their original sites in the early 1900s, how they tell stories if you know how to read them.

But your thoughts are elsewhere.

You wonder if he noticed.

You tell yourself it’s better if he didn’t.

You hate that you kind of want him to have noticed.

It’s only after the group has trickled out, sticky-fingered children and camera-toting grandparents in their wake, that you return to your little info desk tucked near the back corner of the gallery. You’re digging for a fresh stack of feedback forms when you spot it.

A cup.

Sitting quietly on the far edge of the desk.

Still warm.

White lid. Blue sleeve. Your name written in sharp, angled handwriting — the kind you’ve only ever seen scrawled on one café chalkboard.

A folded note lies underneath.

You freeze.

No one’s nearby. You glance toward the hallway as if the coffee might vanish the moment you look away.

You reach for the note with slow fingers, like it might burn you.

Unfold it.

You didn’t come to the café this morning, and I prepared my best cup yet :( — R.

The sad face is ridiculous. You stare at it like it might shift into something else. But no, it’s real. Undeniably him. A little crooked and careful. Like he’d been trying to be light about it, but something in the curve of the frown betrayed him.

And just like that, the giddy thing in your chest unfurls. Something warm and bright spreads up through your ribs, so soft you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

He noticed.

He didn’t think you were weird. He didn’t pull away. He made you a coffee anyway.

And he left it here. He found your station, dropped it off without a word, then vanished like a ghost with rings and good taste in espresso.

You hug the cup between your palms, holding it for a second before taking the first sip.

It’s perfect. Better than usual, even. He wasn’t bluffing about it being his best.

You smile into the lid, lip quirking against the rim.

Of course he made it today, of all days. The day your eyes are still puffy and your pride feels scraped raw. The day you told yourself to keep your head down.

And now you want to go see him.

But you don’t get the chance.

The museum is relentless. Your supervisor pulls you for an extra tour. Someone in admin ropes you into helping set up folding chairs for a lecture in the east wing. A kid throws up in the Greco-Roman alcove (pink slushie – impressive range) and you spend fifteen minutes helping a mortified mum find the right staff member.

By the time your shift winds down, the café is already closed.

You pass the doors on your way out. The lights are off and the chairs are stacked and you press a palm briefly against the fogged glass, just for a second.

There’s nothing in the window, no sign of him but you’re still smiling.

-

The next morning, you don’t hesitate.

No detours. No self-conscious stalling in the exhibits. You walk straight past Greg (who’s migrated from Eloise to Louisa, bless him), turn the corner before your nerves can change your course, and push open the door to the café with a soft jingle.

And he’s there.

Of course he’s there with his sleeves pushed up, a towel tossed over one shoulder and his whole shape haloed in the early light streaming through the fogged-up windows. He’s halfway through restocking the pastry case when the bell rings, but the second he looks up and sees you, he grins.

Not the usual small, polite tilt of his mouth you’ve come to know. No, this is a real smile. Full. Bright. It changes his whole face. Softens everything. Makes you feel like you’ve just walked into a sunrise.

His eyes crinkle a little at the corners as he leans both elbows on the counter, forearms flexing with the shift. One hand tucks under the other, fingers idly tapping as he watches you cross the room. The silver rings flash when they catch the light, and you’re momentarily derailed by the unfair handsomeness of it all.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep but lighter than usual, like the gravel’s melted into honey.

You raise your brows, dropping your lanyard on the counter between you. “Wasn’t sure I’d get such a warm welcome.”

“I was hoping I’d see you today,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. No second-guessing. Just those words, said with quiet conviction and a flick of warmth behind his eyes.

You grin, chin tilting just slightly. “Why? Did you miss my loveliness?”

Remus laughs that soft, startled kind of laugh that curls from his chest before he bites down on it. His head ducks a little, hand scrubbing the back of his neck, like he hadn’t meant to let it out quite so easily.

“Something like that,” he murmurs, glancing back at you with a spark in his eye that makes your stomach tilt a little too happily.

You lean on the counter to mirror him, fingertips brushing the wood. “Must’ve been hard for you yesterday, pouring your best coffee and no one showing up for it.”

“It was tragic,” he says, tone dry but eyes bright. “You’ll be pleased to know Marlene got to drink plenty of it.’”

“Well I suppose if I couldn't have it, Marlene would be my top choice” you say, smug.

“Don’t tell her that it’ll go straight to her head,” he says, mock-sulky. 

You laugh, and the sound seems to light something between you.

The rest of the morning blurs. You talk too long. Neither of you mentions it. He hands you your drink with a soft “here you go, lovely” that makes your ears feel too warm, and you tease him about his very nice handwriting. He deflects by accusing you of being a coffee snob with “absurdly high standards for someone who used to drink instant.” You gasp in betrayal and he shrugs, all innocence.

By the time you leave, you’re buzzing more from the exchange than the caffeine.

And then… it just keeps happening.

Every day that week, it’s the same. Easy. Familiar. Better than before.

He greets you with that real smile now, the one that makes you feel like you’ve been missed. Sometimes you catch him watching the door before you walk in, like he’s waiting. He’s still quiet in that Remus way, still folds into corners and doesn’t give much away, but with you, something’s shifted. He leans into the banter. Laughs more. Looks at you longer.

You learn he reads poetry – “the sad kind, mostly” – and hates using digital calendars. You tell him, what feels like a million little tidbits about yourself

Sometimes he tosses you a biscuit wrapped in a napkin. Sometimes you bring him a weird little fact from your gallery – “Did you know Roman cement gets stronger with seawater?” – and he rolls his eyes but always listens.

It’s all easy. Soft.

But underneath it, something else simmers.

A glance that lingers a beat too long. A brush of fingers over a coffee cup. The way your name sounds different when he says it, like he’s tucking it into his pocket.

-

The museum is quiet, everything is hushed and humming with the sound of a building exhaling. Somewhere, a cleaner wheels a cart down a hallway, the distant squeak of mop wheels echoing like footsteps in a cathedral. The last of the visitors are long gone, the lights dimmed to half, and you’re tucked into the little bench nook outside the Ancient Cultures gallery, coat balled beside you, bag in your lap, phone in your hand but not really looking at it.

The bus app offers its verdict with the apathy of a machine that does not know how tired you are. Next arrival: 47 minutes. Last update: 6 mins ago.

You sigh.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve had worse. It’s just – you’re tired. And it’s unseasonably cold in the kind of creeping, inside-your-sleeves way that makes everything feel a little thinner.

You glance out through the thin museum windows. The sky’s gone blue-black, smeared with the last streaks of orange. Your reflection stares faintly back at you in the glass, hair a little mussed, cheeks flushed from the air.

You don’t hear footsteps.

But you do hear his voice.

“Hey.”

It’s soft, close, and it pulls you out of your thoughts like a hand gently tugging at your sleeve. You blink up and there he is.

Remus.

Still in his work clothes – jumper rumpled, sleeves pushed up, messenger bag slung crosswise over his chest. His hair’s messier than usual, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it.

His expression is familiar. Open. That gentle, attentive look like he’s trying to read your mood before you can even name it yourself.

“What are you still doing here?”

You shift, a little embarrassed, brushing at the hem of your coat. “Oh – my bus got cancelled. Signal issue or something. Not sure. The next ones delayed too.”

He huffs out a breath, the barest edge of a smile curling at his mouth, and moves closer. Not just a polite step, either. Close.

You can feel the heat of him now, the warmth from his coat, the faint smell of coffee beans and citrus soap. He stops in front of you, hands tucked into his coat pockets, one eyebrow lifted.

“Come on,” he says, like it’s already decided. “I’ll give you a lift.”

You blink. “What?”

“A lift,” he repeats, deadpan, one brow raised. “In my car.”

You let out a startled laugh. “Remus, no, it’s okay. Seriously. I’ll be fine. The next one’s just a bit delayed, and there’s a bench, and I can’t ask that of you–”

He cuts you off with a tilt of his head. “You’re not asking, dove. I’m offering.”

Your brain trips over the word, the pet name, like it hit a loose stone. He says it so naturally, like it’s always been your name, soft and certain and low in his throat.

You look up at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You can’t just call me a nice name and expect me to go along with whatever plan you’ve cooked up.”

“It’s working though, isn’t it?” His smile curves sharper at the edges and it’s stupidly smug as he sighs. “Please let me give you a lift, lovely.”

You stare at him – this utterly ridiculous, infuriatingly warm-eyed barista with stupidly good hands and a knack for catching you right when you're about to spiral – and you want to say no. Just out of principle. Just to prove you can.

But it’s cold.

And the bench is hard.

And his voice is a warm hand on your spine.

“…fine,” you say, quiet but clear.

Remus smiles, it’s not smug, but pleased, quiet and certain. And before you can even start doubting your own choice, he reaches down and takes your hand.

He slides his fingers around yours like it’s nothing, like you do this all the time. Like you’re not two people who have existed solely in the space between lattes and locker room small talk.

The contact is warm. Solid.

You blink down at your joined hands, startled but not resisting, and he gives yours a soft, reassuring squeeze. Doesn’t tug. Doesn’t rush. He Just waits until you lift your bag with your other hand and nod and then he starts walking.

He doesn’t let go.

Even when you’re halfway down the main corridor. Even when Greg mumbles “Good night,” and you toss him a weak wave with your free hand. Even when the staff door groans open and lets in a rush of cold night air.

Remus keeps your fingers wrapped in his like he’s afraid you’ll float off otherwise.

You reach the staff car park, tucked behind the museum’s east wing. His car’s parked under one of the flickering lamp posts. A beat-up, dusky green hatchback with mismatched hubcaps and a dent near the bumper that you think might be shaped like a shopping trolley. It’s endearing. Stupidly so.

He drops your hand only to unlock the doors, tossing his bag into the backseat before opening the passenger door for you with a little half-bow.

You narrow your eyes, trying not to smile. “I take it back. I am getting back on the bus.”

“You’re awful.” He grins. “It’s too late anyway. You already agreed.”

You slide in. The seat is a bit low, the dash cluttered with a few loose receipts and what looks like a crumpled poetry zine jammed into the side panel. It smells like bergamot and espresso grounds – not unpleasant. Just… him.

He starts the car with a cough and a wheeze that makes you both wince. “That’s normal,” he says, fiddling with the heat dial. 

The first few minutes are… quiet. Not tense, exactly. But unfamiliar.

You’ve never been in a space with him that didn’t include steam or café noise or the soft clink of ceramic cups. This is different. Too quiet. His profile in the passing streetlights is sharp — all nose and jaw and flickers of shadow — and you catch yourself sneaking glances like a weirdo, trying to place this version of him. The one who drives you home.

You fidget with the strap of your bag.

He adjusts the heat and says, casual, “Do you not drive?”

You glance over, surprised, then laugh. “Not all of us want to be in charge of a vehicle, Rem.”

He smirks. “I suppose if I had people willing to drive me about, I wouldn’t either”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t know if you’ve realised, but the only chauffeur I have is public transport.”

He raises a brow, glancing over as he turns down a quieter side street. “ And me, now.”

You pause. “…And you.”

He grins, and it’s like the air eases. Warms. His voice goes a little gentler. “So. How was today?”

You shrug, staring out at the blur of headlights. “Long. Better than yesterday, though.”

A pause.

Then: “Glad to hear it.”

You glance at him, then back at the windshield, your smile small but sincere. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

He hums, casual. “Which one?”

You nudge his arm with your knuckles. “You know which.”

“Oh. That one.” He feigns thoughtfulness. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure you’d find it. Had to bribe Carol from admin to tell me your desk.”

You laugh. “Carol? Cardigan Carol?”

“That’s the one. Very protective. Nearly bit me when I asked.”

“She likes me,” you say, pleased.

“Everyone does,” he mutters. “Lot’s of competition for your work time affections.”

There’s a beat of shared amusement, and then the conversation just… flows. You talk about nothing and everything. He tells you about a café regular who only orders hot water and leaves a ten-pound tip (“I'm worried it's some kind of social experiment”), and you tell him about the time a kid on your tour started a rumour that one of the Roman statues was haunted and it spiraled into a three-week school ban.

Somewhere between the second roundabout and your street, your laughter fills the car in easy bursts, the kind that makes your stomach flutter with something dangerously close to joy.

He pulls up to your building with a gentle halt, the engine coughing softly before it settles into silence. The headlights catch on the chipped curb outside your flat, and for a moment neither of you moves.

The street is quiet. No one else around. Just the two of you, tucked into the warmth of his little car, the windows fogged at the corners.

You hesitate.

Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag again. Then you glance sideways, your voice softer now, careful. “Thank you.”

Remus looks over, brows ticking together just a little like he’s not sure why you sound so serious. “Of course, lovely. Anytime.”

But you shake your head, shifting a little in your seat to face him more fully. “No. I mean… for everything.”

He blinks.

“For being kind,” you say, voice low but steady. For making me laugh when I felt like shit. For remembering how I take my coffee. For not making it weird. I just—” You pause, breath catching. “You didn’t have to be so nice. But you were. You are. I was sure you didn’t like me when we met.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, then something gentle and sharp all at once. His hand is still on the gear shift, thumb resting idle, but his whole body seems to lean in a fraction.

“I don’t think there’s anything that could make me not want to be nice to you,” he says. “I did like you, I’m just slow to warm.”

And while he says it, his eyes drop, just for a second, to your mouth.

You notice.

And you don’t look away.

“You’re really lovely,” you whisper, voice catching only slightly on the truth of it.

Your words tremble a little, but not from uncertainty. More like something building. Your eyes flick down to his lips, then back up again.

Then down.

Then up.

Remus swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretches, soft and crackling, full of tension like the second before a summer storm breaks.

And then – like it’s inevitable – you both move at the same time.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just sure. The way his hand rises to cradle your jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. The way your breath mingles in the narrow space between. The way your lips meet.  Warm and firm and certain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. Careful. His mouth moves against yours like he’s learning the shape of your breath, like he’s been waiting for this and wants to remember every second. His hand slips to the side of your neck, thumb brushing just below your ear.

You lean in closer, fingers curling in the collar of his coat, anchoring yourself to him. Your lips part and he kisses you deeper, fuller, with a low hum in the back of his throat that makes your stomach flutter.

The windows fog a little more.

And when you finally pull back, breath shaky, he doesn’t go far. Just rests his forehead against yours. His nose brushes yours. He smiles,  small and stunned and glowing.

You laugh, quiet and breathless. “Hi.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Hi.”

You linger there, neither of you ready to break the moment. Outside, the street stays quiet. The world can wait.

Right now, there’s only the warmth between you.

And the way his thumb keeps brushing your cheek like he still can’t believe you’re real.

masterlist <3

[mansionofhaunts]

Emily on Adventuring Party saying "I was gonna reach out to Ruben but then he dropped a fucking 9th level spell on me," is pretty illustrative of the difference between how the players see the game versus how a lot of folks online see it, like...why am I seeing people say stuff like "oh, they're all anti-capitalist until the battle starts and then all of a sudden, they're cops???? Do they not believe in restorative justice???"

These are kids who have plotted the deaths of the Bad Kids well before any of them actually did anything to warrant it, other than being good at adventuring. They've been openly antagonistic or have lied to and manipulated them. We're like, two episodes removed from them killing one of their own clerics (for the second time!) because they lost their opportunity to kill all of the Bad Kids. They sent dragons after a house full of kids that they launched into the sky in a wildly premeditated plan. They may have magically corrupted Gorgug's house!

The Rat Grinders have been manipulated by their teachers and magically corrupted by rage, yes, but even if you want to talk them down, if there's a rage wizard with ninth-level spells running around, you don't let that motherfucker drop a meteor swarm on all of your heads, like...there are priorities

[russomething]

OVER WORKED, UNDER CAFFEINATED → ALESSIA RUSSO

𓆩♡𓆪 pairing: alessia russo x barista!reader 𓆩♡𓆪 blurb: alessia finally works up the courage to ask out the pretty barista at her local coffee shop, but a last minute arsenal pr event threatens to ruin their relationship before it can even begin. (based on this req.) 𓆩♡𓆪 word count: 6k 𓆩♡𓆪 genre: fluff + angst

The inside of the cafe smells like espresso and freshly baked banana bread, a familiar air of warmth that you’ve become used to. Outside, the sky is still deciding what kind of mood it’s in, a half-hearted drizzle falling onto the windows whilst the sun tries to break through in patches. At this time of day, the cafe is quiet, most customers having taken their drinks to go, or sitting quietly on their own with a book or laptop for company. There’s only the hum of the grinder, the occasional hiss of steamed milk, and Oscar humming under his breath as he restocks the pastry case from the morning rush.

You’re mid-wipe on the countertop when the bell above the door chimes.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s her, but you do anyway.

Alessia Russo steps into the shop like she always does: hood up, cheeks a tad pink from the early morning chill and a smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’s trying not to grin too early. She pushes her hood down as she approaches the counter, hair slightly windswept, a few strands having escaped her neatly braided ponytail thanks to the January winds. Her eyes lock with yours like there’s nowhere else she could possibly look.

“Morning” she says, a little breathless, like she’s jogged here. 

You glance at the clock. 9:16. Later than usual, maybe that explains the winded appearance.

“You’re late” you tease, picking up a clean cup.

Alessia pretends to be offended, clutching her chest, but there’s a smile on her face regardless. She leans against the counter, eyes fixed on the pastry cabinet even though you both know she won’t buy one. It’s a ritual by now. “Had to run by the shop to grab some lunch as I forgot to shop last night. At some point I accepted I’d be late for training and gave up.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re running late, huh? Should I be honoured you still made time for your daily coffee run?”

“You should, actually,” she says with a grin, leaning her elbow on the counter now. “Could’ve let the club feed me that filter machine crap, but here I am. Supporting small businesses.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” you say with a wide smile, writing down her usual on the paper cup. Oat vanilla latte, four pumps of syrup instead of the usual one (a nutritionist's worst nightmare, but you wouldn’t tattle on her). You’ve known her order by heart for weeks now, but the ritual of writing it never quite dissipates. .

She shrugs. “Also, you make it better.”

You don’t answer right away, just turning to the machine to hide your smile as the steam wand screams to life. It’s always like this with Alessia. You see her almost every weekday, like clockwork; pre-training, post-training, post-gym, post-whatever she’s had to do that morning for club or country, and she always stays for longer at the counter than a regular customer would. It’s never quite long enough to call it flirting, but well enough to make your stomach twist.

Behind you, Oscar is humming the Friends theme song. You resist the urge to throw a spoon at him.

“So,” Alessia says as you’re placing the lid onto her cup, “do I get the loyalty stamp today, or am I still banned after that time I judged your specials board?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t ban you permanently for that,” you reply, still offended as you remember how long you had taken drawing the swirly letters on the board (art wasn’t your forte), but you do reach for the stamper tucked in the drawer beneath the till. “One more and you get a free one. Might even draw you a star on it.”

She raises a brow. “A gold one?”

“Don’t push your luck, Russo.”

Alessia laughs, a light and easy sound that makes your chest ache just a little. Then she leans closer over the counter, her voice lower now as you hand over the coffee.

“Thanks,” she says, fingers brushing yours for a second too long as she takes the cup.

You nod, trying to ignore the way your skin warms under her touch. If you focused your attention back on a small stain on the counter to hide the blush on your cheeks, who could blame you? “Enjoy your day. Hope they make you do something painfully awkward for content.”

“They will,” she sighs, backing away toward the door, “and I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.”

Your heart stutters, but she’s gone before you can fully process the meaning behind her words. You stare at the door a second too long, watching the pathetic attempt at rain drip down the glass panel as the blush burns through your skin. 

There’s a clatter behind you as Oscar drops a muffin tray on the counter and clears his throat dramatically. “You know she only comes in on days you’re working, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Oscar gestures at the door like Alessia might reappear and confirm it herself. “She checks the rota. She literally asked me once when your next shift was. Tried to be casual about it, but she used your name like it was an MI6 briefing.”

You roll your eyes, finally facing him. “She likes the coffee I make.”

“She likes you.”

“She’s just being nice.”

Oscar snorts. “Hon, please. She flirts with you like she’s training for the Olympics. The hand brushes? The ‘you make it better’ lines? The lingering looks? I’ve seen less sexual tension in a romance novel.”

You busy yourself wiping the same part of the counter again. “It’s just a little banter.”

Oscar levels you with a look. You don’t turn around to see it, but you can feel it boring a hole into your back “And yet you blush every time she walks in.”

“I do not.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

You don’t dignify that with an answer, but that’s mostly because it’s true. Your cheeks are warm, your hands are still tingling, and your mind’s already racing ahead to tomorrow morning. You do that a lot, think about when you’ll next see Alessia. Every time someone vaguely blonde walks through the door for the rest of your shifts it makes your heart beat a little louder. 

Oscar grins, smug. “Why don’t you just ask her out?”

Now that draws a squeak from you as you move to grab a croissant from the case. You’ll drop a pound in the donations box for it later. Instead of answering, you shove the pastry into your mouth, making a helpless motion to Oscar that you can’t give him a response as you’re busy eating. 

He throws a cleaning cloth at you.

–

Evening shifts always make the café feel different. They’re usually slower, warmer, and a little softer around the edges. The rush of commuters is long gone, the after-school crowd has disappeared, and now it's just a few loyal regulars nursing drinks under low lighting, or students who are revelling in the miracle of a coffee shop that opens late. You’ve always liked it this way, when the espresso machine hums like a lullaby and everything feels slightly quieter.

Oscar is perched at the counter, legs swinging under the bar like a child as he scrolls through his phone. You’re restocking the pastry case, a literally neverending task. The dull clink of ceramic cups is the loudest sound in the room.

And then ding, the bell above the door rings.

“Hi,” you call without turning, wiping your hands on your apron. “Same as usual?”

You can practically feel her smile, “Bit presumptive, don’t you think?”

When you look up, Alessia is standing there in her training gear, cheeks tinted pink from the cold. This time her hair is down as if she’s recently showered, tucked behind one ear, and she’s smiling at you in that slow, easy way that always makes you forget your own name for a second.

You shrug, trying to hide how fast your pulse jumps. “Call it a hunch.”

She walks up to the counter and leans her arms on it, like always. “Yeah, well, I missed your ‘hunch’ the other night.”

You blink, a small frown forming on your face as you think back to Monday. “What do you mean?”

“I came in. Monday, like usual,” she says. “But you weren’t here.”

You pause halfway through reaching for a cup, it suddenly clicking. You’d taken the early shift instead to save your friend’s social life. “Oh. Yeah. Oscar needed the evening off - had a date with this magician guy–”

“Magician?” she echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you say, grinning like . “He’s going through something, I don’t ask questions.”

Alessia huffs a laugh, and then goes quiet again contemplating something. “I didn’t stay long,” she says, more softly this time. “Place didn’t feel the same.”

Your hand stills on the portafilter. It’s a small sentence, but it lands like a pebble in your chest. Tiny, sudden ripples that make you look up. That’s when you finally see it. 

The shift.

The way she’s looking at you like she didn’t mean to say that part out loud, like she’s already bracing for the silence that might follow. And suddenly Oscar’s teasing words float back to you, the knowing grin as he smugly announced “you know she only comes in when you’re working, right?”

You thought he was joking, but now you’re not so sure.

You clear your throat, try to keep it light but you stumble over your own words, not quite knowing how the hell to respond.. “Guess I should tell you my rota, then. Save you the wasted trip.” You rush out and turn quickly, pretending to focus on steaming the milk so she doesn’t see the way you blush. The cup rattles slightly as you set it down, your heart thudding embarrassingly loud.

It’s nothing. It could be nothing. You like talking to Alessia. She’s funny, she’s easy to be around, and she always looks at you like she’s thinking too hardl. But now it feels like maybe she likes talking to you too, as more than just the source of her caffeine addiction, and the realisation is dizzying.

You pass the coffee across the counter, fighting the urge to clear her throat. “Here. Try not to be too devastated next time I take a night off.”

Alessia takes it, hands wrapping around the warmth like it’s winter outside. (It is.) “Not making any promises.”

She lingers for a second. You expect her to say something else, but she doesn’t.

Oscar, ever the tactful observer, coughs pointedly from behind you.

Alessia jolts slightly. “Right. I should go. Long day.”

You nod, ignoring Oscar’s obvious smirk behind your shoulder. “See you soon.”

“Yeah,” she says, turning to leave, one hand already on the door. “See you–”

She stops, just before the door. Doesn’t turn, not for a loaded moment that your English teacher would have once described as a pregnant pause. 

Then she turns back.

“Do you want to go out sometime?”

The café falls quiet again. Or maybe the blood rushing in your ears is so loud that you simply can’t hear anything other than your own heartbeat

You stare at her, not risking even a blink for fear she might disappear. “Out?”

“Yeah,” she says quickly, nervously. “Like… on a date. With me. If you want. No pressure if you don’t, just– I’ve been meaning to ask, and I keep chickening out. And then on Monday you weren’t here and it felt weird and that was when I realised maybe I should just… do it.”

You finally blink. She’s still there; Alessia Russo, Queen of Cool, looking like she’s barely keeping it together. There’s a flush across her cheeks now that has nothing to do with the cold and she’s holding the coffee like it might anchor her to the floor.

After what feels like a lifetime, you swallow out a “yeah.”

Her eyes widen. “Yeah?”

“I’d like that,” you say, smiling now “a lot.”

Alessia exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a week. “Cool,” she says, lips quirking into a bashful grin. “Okay. Great. Um. Are you free next Tuesday?”

There’s some faff, some negotiation as you both scramble to check your calendars, but then Alessia is walking out with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen on her.

You turn back around and Oscar is literally clapping. 

You throw a napkin at him.

–

Oscar is sprawled across your bed like a bored Victorian housewife, flicking through TikTok and occasionally glancing up to deliver commentary that’s entirely unhelpful but very on-brand.

“Okay, but what if she shows up looking like absolute garbage?” he offers, chewing gum like it’s his life’s purpose. “Like full post-training gremlin mode. Would you still kiss her?”

You groan, slipping an earring in. “I’m not answering that.”

“She’s hot either way, just saying.” He flops onto his front dramatically, chin in his hands. “Please do remember to actually kiss her. I can’t deal with you doing this awkward dance for another month of my life.”

You ignore him and choose to smooth your hands down your sides, gaze flicking over your reflection one last time. The outfit took three tries. It’s cute, confident and casual enough not to look desperate, but still date-worthy. Your hair’s doing that thing you always hope for but rarely achieve, as if even it knows the gravity of this moment. There’s a nervous buzz dancing under your skin, low and thrumming, but not bad. It’s hopeful.

“It’ll be fine,” you murmur to yourself more than to Oscar.

He hums, already texting something, probably live-updating your outfit to his new magician boyfriend. “If she breaks your heart, I’m posting her order history on Twitter.”

“Please don’t.”

“She gets three extra pumps of vanilla,” he stage-whispers like he’s been personally scorned. “That’s not a person you can trust.”

–

The restaurant is small and tucked away, candlelit and warm despite the breeze curling in every time the door opens. You give your name to the host, first name only, because that’s all Alessia knows. That’s all either of you really had time for, just a casual warmth of familiarity built on coffee cups and eye contact and her shy little smirks at the till.

You’re seated near the window in a space that’s quiet enough to feel intimate. A candle flickers in the middle of the table. You let yourself breathe in deep, stomach fluttering.

She’s not here yet. That’s fine. You’re early anyway.

You order water and fold your hands in your lap to stop fidgeting. The cutlery glints in the soft light. Everything about the table feels ready, like it expects romance. 

7:05.

You scroll through your phone without really seeing anything. A couple texts from Oscar. A meme from your sister. No Alessia, obviously - you don’t have her number. You never thought to ask. It felt like something that would… just happen. 

7:11.

You pretend to read the drinks menu, even though you’ve looked at it three times now. You try not to glance at the door every time it opens, but you fail spectacularly in that. Any glimpse of a person makes you nervous, even if they’re six foot five, male and balding. .

7:17.

Your water glass is half-empty and you haven’t touched the bread basket.

7:21.

You tell yourself training might’ve run over. You picture her apologising already, all breathless and flustered with cheeks dutifully pink from the rush, hair still a little damp from the shower. You imagine her slipping into the chair across from you, laughing softly, saying “God, I’m so sorry, have you been waiting long?”

You’d say, “Not at all.” And you’d mean it.

7:26.

Maybe she’s just shy. Maybe she’s circling the block, building up the courage to come in. You keep one eye on the door, keep rehearsing what you’ll say when she walks through it.

Maybe you should order something  to make it feel less awkward. Or maybe you shouldn’t - maybe she’ll feel guilty if she sees you already eating.

7:33.

You consider messaging her. Just something light likr you’re not lost, are you? But then that little predicament comes back: you don’t have her number. You could DM her on Instagram, but she doesn’t follow you and you’re sure it would simply get lost in the thousands of adoring fans that flood her inbox. Fans who call her Lessi and cheer for her on Sundays and leave hearts under every photo.

The table feels colder suddenly, the candle’s burned an inch lower. It’s all still charming and romantic, but now it’s mocking you, too.

7:40.

You check your phone again. Like something might’ve changed. Like she might’ve miraculously appeared in your missed notifications.

She isn’t coming.

You don’t want to admit it, but the realisation unfurls slowly in your chest, heavy, thick and sour.

You’ve been stood up.

And not in a movie-style dramatic way. Not with a text or an excuse or even an awkward cancellation. Just… nothing.

Your reflection in the window is a bit pathetic, honestly. A bit too hopeful, even now. You’d done your hair, you’d worn perfume and you’d let your guard down. You’d cracked the door open and let her step through, and this is what you got for it. Here you are, alone with a sweating water glass and a half-hearted bread basket.

The waiter hovers nearby with that polite, pitying expression people wear around abandoned tables. You can't quite stand it so you get up abruptly and pull your coat tighter around yourself. Your face burns with something between embarrassment and disappointment and something you’re not quite ready to name.

You wave the waiter off before he can offer anything else.

Outside, the city feels bigger than usual. Loud. The wrong kind of alive.

You walk quickly, not because you’re in a rush, but because standing still feels dangerously ike the weight of it all might finally catch up and settle in your bones.

You don’t cry.

You just walk.

And try to uselessly forget the way her eyes crinkled when she smiles.

–

You’re late to work the next day. Not by much, seven minutes, give or take, but you’re never late. Not even when you’ve had two hours sleep, or missed the bus, or stayed up too long scrolling through videos that made your head ache. But this morning, your alarm had gone off, and you’d just… stayed there staring at the ceiling, covers pulled to your chin like they might keep the disappointment from seeping in through your skin.

By the time you drag yourself into the cafe, the sky is grey and heavy. The door clatters behind you in a way that makes your head throb. Oscar looks up from behind the counter, coffee cup in hand. One glance at your face, and he blinks. His expression shifts from casual to concerned in under a second.

“Well,” he says, carefully. “You look like death personified.”

You don’t answer. You drop your bag behind the counter and start tying your apron around your waist with fingers that feel clumsy and slow.

Oscar tries again. “I’m pretty sure those are yesterday’s jeans.”

You still don’t look up. Somehow you find the energy to murmur a pleading “please don’t start.”

He watches you and you can feel the way he’s turning something over in his head. Maybe a joke or a tease he’s too kind to let loose just yet. Then his voice softens. “Hey. What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Y/N—”

“Seriously. Don’t.”

It comes out sharper than you mean it to. The tension snaps in the space between you like a rubber band stretched too tight. You suck in a breath, and Oscar immediately raises his hands in surrender.

“Okay. No pressure. My bad.” He backs off, bless him. “Do you want coffee? Do you want me to do all the front-of-house stuff? Do you want me to ban every man who calls you ‘darlin’ like it’s a tip?”

You finally glance at him. The concern is still there, but it’s wrapped in something gentler now, that warm, easy care that Oscar is best at. The kind of care that doesn’t demand explanations.

You nod, once.

“I’ll do the orders,” he says. “You take a minute.”

You head into the back, breathing in the scent of stale cinnamon buns and overused mop water, and try not to think too hard.

–

The morning moves at a glacial pace, but you find a rhythm that doesn’t make you want to burst into tears.

You make coffee. You wipe down counters. You pretend not to flinch every time someone says the word “date” into their phone.

It’s stupid. You know that. You know it’s stupid to still be this wounded. But it’s not just that she didn’t show. It’s the hope that did. The way you’d sat inside the restaurant for all that time, peeking through the window every few minutes like she might materialise if you just believed hard enough. The way you'd checked your phone even despite not having her number,  just to pretend you had some kind of way of reaching her.

You’d thought about messaging her on Instagram, still are really, but you’d blocked her. It didn’t mean anything, for she’d have no idea that a random barista had blocked her page, but you had to. When you got home and opened the app to see you still had her page loaded, it was the only thing you could do to stop the ache. 

Even if you hadn’t, what would you even say? Hey, remember that date you asked me on and then didn’t show up for? No big deal, just rewiring my expectations of human connection now, cheers. You nearly knock over a tray of clean mugs just thinking about it.

The bell above the door rings, sharp and bright.

You don’t look up. You’re too busy restocking syrup pumps. You don’t even glance at the clock, which might have told you it was the usual time for a certain someone to come in.

“Hi - sorry, I’m just– is Y/N working today?”

You freeze. Your spine goes rigid. Your hand pauses mid-motion, caramel bottle halfway to the shelf, and for a moment it’s like time folds in on itself.

You shouldn’t be surprised. It’s Monday. She always comes in after morning training on Mondays - it’s routine. But something in you hadn’t even considered she’d show up. Not after last night. Not after leaving you alone at a table for two, pretending you weren’t waiting for someone while the waitstaff looked at you with varying degrees of pity.

You duck fast.

One second you’re upright, the next you’re crouched behind the espresso machine like a soldier in a rom-com war zone. You keep your head down, heart hammering, breath caught high in your throat.

Oscar glances at you, confused.

You hiss, “I’m not here.”

“What–?”

“I’m not here!”

“Are you–?”

“I am not here, Oscar!”

He frowns for a millisecond, then shrugs. “Okay.”

You scramble through the door, narrowly avoiding knocking over the mop bucket, and wedge yourself between two towers of stock crates. The air smells like cardboard and pine-scented floor cleaner, and your knees are pressed against your chest so hard it hurts. You rest your forehead against them anyway, trying to slow your breathing.

From the front room, you can hear everything.

Oscar recovers smoothly: “Oh hey. Uh, no, she’s not in today.”

A pause. You can imagine her, frowning. Tucking her hair behind her ear. Doing that thing where her voice dips lower when she’s unsure.

“Really? I thought she usually– I mean–”

“Yeah. Shift swap.” Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s not in till next week.”

Another pause.

“Okay. Thanks.”

The door chimes as she leaves.

You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty just to be sure. The silence settles in thick around you.

Then the door creaks again and Oscar pokes his head through.

He spots you immediately with your knees hugged to your chest, eyes red and watery with a blotchy face in that way that only crying can do. You’re not sobbing, not really. Just letting the weight of it catch up to you.

Oscar doesn't say anything at first. Then he crosses the space, lowers himself down beside you, and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

That’s the opening of the dam. 

You fall into him, not bothering to stop the tears this time. They fall quiet and slow, soaking into his shirt. Your body sinks with each shaky breath, like now that someone else is holding you, you don’t have to pretend to hold yourself together anymore.

“I really liked her,” you whisper.

Oscar rubs your arm. He doesn’t know what happened, not yet, but he doesn’t even question it, just holds you and says  “She’s a dumbass.”

“She asked me out. She picked the day.” You sob quietly until you can’t anymore. It’s only when your eyes dry out that you let out a shaky breath, one that turns into a wet laugh. “I’m such an idiot.”

“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You’re not. You liked someone and you let yourself hope. That’s brave, not stupid.”

You rest your head against his shoulder again, and Oscar squeezes you tighter. You’ll tell him what happened later, over cheap wine and terrible horror movies, and he’ll frown and call Alessia names he’s too kind to really mean, but for now you’ll be content with this moment here. 

Neither of you move from the floor when the bell chimes again. 

– 

Alessia had planned it all out in that low-simmering way she does, with a quiet confidence like she already knew exactly how Y/N would smile when she walked into the restaurant. How the soft glow from the candlelight would bounce off her cheekbones. How they’d laugh. How it would just feel… easy. Like all the flirting over lattes had always been leading here.

But instead, she’s sat in the back of a car on the way to a last-minute Arsenal PR event, stomach churning as the minutes tick past. She checks her phone again. Not that she’s expecting a text, she literally can’t. They never exchanged numbers, and she never asked. She thought it was cute, actually - made the date feel a bit more cinematic, that kind of “See you then” with no way of confirming, like something out of a Nora Ephron film. She’d show up, Y/N would be there, and it would all just fall into place.

Instead the clock ticked steadily towards the arranged time, and Alessia? Still here. Still shaking hands and smiling for sponsor photos and answering the same recycled questions she’s heard a hundred times about form, fitness, fixtures.

She pulls her phone out between camera flashes, frantically opening Instagram. She doesn’t even follow the cafe, but she remembers seeing a big ‘FOLLOW US ON INSTAGRAM’ plastered on a board once, so she knows there must be one. 

It takes her five minutes of digging to find the account. Then three more to find the right photo. And then finally– there. Y/N. Grinning behind the counter, name tagged in the caption.

Alessia’s thumb hovers over the profile for a moment before she finally clicks. It loads slowly. Painfully. Then she taps the message icon, heart in her mouth–

Her phone goes black. Dead.

“No, no, no,” she mutters, smacking the side of the phone like that’ll help. “Come on.”

The car jolts as it turns a corner, and her head falls back against the headrest in quiet defeat.

When she gets home hours later, soaked from the downpour that had started the second the event ended, shivering in damp trainers and an Arsenal hoodie she longed to change out forever ago, she races to plug her phone in. It powers back on and notifications flood in. A few from the PR team. A couple from teammates.

Alessia ignores them all in favour of opening Instagram again, her hands damp and clumsy as she fumbles through the same search.

Only this time, when she finds Y/N’s profile, it won’t load. The icon spins, refreshes, and then vanishes.

She’s been blocked.

Her chest caves in on itself, like someone’s physically pressed a thumb into her ribs and twisted.

Blocked.

She drops her phone on the bed and sinks down next to it, staring blankly at the ceiling. The date - the stupid, cursed, almost-date - was supposed to be the start of something. The real beginning. And now it’s… just a memory she doesn’t even get to share.

The worst part is, she gets it. She’d do the same thing in Y/N’s shoes; assume the silence meant disinterest, rejection.

It doesn’t matter that Alessia had rehearsed five different compliments. It doesn’t matter that she’d spent half an hour choosing between two jackets like it’d make or break the night. It doesn’t matter that she liked Y/N so, so much.

All that matters now is that she’d hurt her, and she might not get the chance to undo it.

–

​​Time doesn’t heal so much as it blurs.

It dulls the edges of things like the sharp snap of disappointment, the sting of being let down. But it doesn’t erase entirely. Not when the memory of Alessia is stitched into your mornings, folded between the seams of your days like a receipt you can’t quite bring yourself to throw away.

You go about your routines at the cafe like nothing’s changed. You clean milk steamers. You restock cups. You press your fingers to the window’s condensation as the weather turns. But Alessia Russo has become a name that sits heavy on your tongue, even when you don’t speak it.

You swap shifts. Oscar doesn’t even question you anymore. He just nods, slips his playlist on shuffle when he can see you’re trying not to think, and leaves you one of the nice pastries on the side whenever he restocks. Still, every time the bell over the door rings, your heart trips like it’s bracing for impact.

She doesn’t come in.

Not after that day.

But hope is sticky. And dumb. And doesn’t really care how hard you try to scrape it off your ribs.

And so, when you’re locking up the cafe one late Thursday, coat zipped to your chin, keyring between your teeth as you mutter to yourself about needing better gloves, you aren’t prepared for the shape that collides into you the second you turn from the door.

You drop your phone and stumble but hands grab your arms before you can fall. That’s when you find yourself nose-to-nose with the ghost that’s been haunting your afternoons.

Alessia is breathless. The rain is starting to soak through her hair, but she’s not got the hood of her jacket up. Her eyes dart across your face like she’s cataloguing you, maybe not believing that you’re here, real, right in front of her. Her lips part to say something, then close again, her throat working around the words like they’re too big to swallow.

You’re the first to speak. Sort of. It’s not really a complete thought, but it’s all you can process at that moment. 

“What–” you breathe, cold air catching in your throat and drawing a cough. “What are you–?”

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, as if she’s been holding it in for weeks (she has). “I’m so–god, I didn’t know how else to find you. I’ve been checking the cafe’s Instagram. They posted earlier, and I saw you were still working tonight–”

“Wait, what?”

She shrinks slightly at your tone, but forges on. “I didn’t stand you up. I swear, Y/N. There was this last-minute PR event. I didn’t know about it until the day. I tried to find a way to reach you but–” she exhales, visibly cringing “when I went to DM you, my phone died.”

You don’t move, too scared to interrupt her speech. Rain drips into your collar uncomfortably but you remain, listening as Alessia keeps talking.

“By the time I got home and charged it, I went on the cafe’s Instagram to try again, but–”

“I’d blocked you,” you finish, quiet.

She nods, shame crawling across her face like a flush. “Yeah. Which - again - fair. I deserved that. I just… I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care. I do care.”

You laugh, sharp and humourless, a sound scraped from the bottom of your lungs. “Kind of hard not to think that when I sat there for over an hour, Less.”

The nickname slips out before you can stop it. It lands between you like a live wire that makes Alessia flinch.

“I know,” she says. “I know. I was late, and then the event ran long, and then I couldn’t leave without looking like an asshole to my whole team, and by the time I got home–”

“You could’ve messaged me. Before. At any point in the weeks leading up to that date.”

“I wanted to,” she says, voice cracking. “But I didn’t want to seem like I was pushing. You never asked for my number either, you know.”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?”

“No!” she says quickly, eyes wide. “God, no. I just… I’m so shit at this. At like… knowing when it’s okay to want something. I didn’t think you’d say yes to me. I didn’t think I deserved you saying yes.”

Silence.

The rain falls harder. Alessia doesn’t step back.

You hate how your chest aches. How her words are so messy and human and honest it hurts.

“I thought you were different,” you murmur. “Not just another person who’d say sweet things and then vanish when it mattered.”

Alessia's face softens, lips parted in horror. “I am different,” she says. “I didn’t vanish. I ran back here the second I could. The day after I came into the cafe but you weren’t there.”

A flicker of shame crawls up your throat. She sounds so genuinely devastated that you almost feel bad for hiding in the back room. Almost. “I was humiliated.”

“I know.”

“I liked you.”

She looks like she might cry. “I liked you too.”

You sigh and shake your head. You’re cold. Wet. Stupidly still in love with a girl who apparently stares at your Instagram stories like they’re prayer candles.

“You made me feel like an idiot.”

“I made you feel like I didn’t care. And that’s worse.”

You glance at her. She’s still standing there, soaked and shivering and letting you yell at her without once looking away. You can’t decide if you want to hug her or throw your keys into the nearest drain.

“Why now?” you whisper, quieter than before. “Why come tonight?”

Alessia smiles faintly, sad at the edges. “Because it’s been seven days, and every day I didn’t try felt worse than the last.”

You want to kiss her. You want to yell at her. You want to go back in time and force her to buy a portable charger and a pack of courage and ask for your damn number like a normal person.

Instead, you both stand there as the rain pools at your feet. The street is empty, the cafe dark behind you, and you vaguely remember that you forgot to sign out.

“I just…” Alessia says, voice quieter now, less frantic. “I just needed to wait for the perfect moment to make it right.”

You glance up at the streetlight above. At the water trickling down her hair, the moon caught in a puddle between your shoes. And despite everything, you laugh. Because how could you not?

You gesture around yourself at the rain that pours from the sky, eyebrows raised. “What? Were you waiting for your romcom sign? Because I think you got it.”

Alessia smiles, really smiles this time. Then, like gravity decided for you, you both move at the same time.

The kiss is soft at first, surprised almost, like neither of you expected it to actually happen. But it grows and deepens, her hands coming up to cup your jaw as yours fist in the hem of her jacket.

It’s everything you wanted it to be: messy and wet, rain-kissed and desperate. Alessia tastes like breath mints and cheap coffee, probably that filtered stuff she always complained about. You kiss her like you’re trying to rewrite the week you spent avoiding her shadow.

When you finally break apart, she’s beaming. Ridiculous. Gorgeous. Her cheeks are pink and she’s got rain on her eyelashes.

“So…” she says, a little breathless. “Am I allowed another chance?”

You grin. “Only if you charge your phone first.”

She salutes. “Scout’s honour.”

“Were you even a scout?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, trying helplessly to fight the grin from taking over your face.

“You’ll just have to go on a date with me to find out.”

a/n: in my head oscar is oscar piastri. don't ask why. anyways. ANONNN I LOVE UUUUU. If u could not tell by my user name alessia is my GIRL and i had the most fun writing this. i am unfortunately working all weekend (boo) so my turnaround time on req. and new dribbles will slow down significantly (how have i written 5 in like 3 days and yet it takes me a week to respond to my emails?????). anyways if ur reading this i love u

[girl-lostconnection]

Helldivers are just little freaks to me, freaky half feral dog creatures that are tossed to the meat grinder of war. Starving war dogs that do not understand what they are starving for exactly but nonetheless still chasing after what was demanded of them, hoping that maybe, MAYBE, if they go further-If they complete even more missions, they’d no longer feel that gnawing hunger even if it chips away at their very souls.

ANYWHO😌 this is reader to me

“Remember that you can’t save everyone. Remember that you have to try” YOU CANT DO THIS TO ME JESTER OH MY GODDDDDDD THE WAY MY HEART SANK. But yeah, you are spitting facts out here, I’m ready to sign under every word you are saying here.

@jesterinc, my G, this one’s for you

Helldiver!Reader who lives this long mostly because of the kindness and patient teaching from older divers. The shared knowledge, the shared manuals, shared camaraderie.

Reader who doesn’t know why Helldivers who are so much more skilful and who could (and by any standard should have) left them behind decided not to.

Question that keeps them up at night sometimes, question that ping pongs off the walls of their head, echoing louder when it’s too quiet.

Why-why-why-why-why?

Reader who doesn’t understand why these behemoths of war tried to help time after time after time.

They don’t get it until they got their first cadet joining in for a mission.

Jumpy tense thing, losing more bullets than actually hitting the enemy, not used to a recoil yet, not sure how to adjust the satellite tower, not very knowledgeable about the mechanics of battle that are their new home now.

(Everyone knows that Helldivers don’t die sleeping. Everyone knows that death is better than shame)

Reader who suddenly gets it why these older Helldivers helped them, why they carried a new pup on the battlefield, why wasn’t they just kicked to the side.

It is often said that Helldivers as a branch are one big pack of feral dogs.

Starved for scraps of approval, dying too young and snarling at every outsider. Feral creatures. Weapons of war.

Judgement rained from the sky on unsuspecting enemies.

It is often overlooked that the most prominent rule Helldivers live by is “we do not mock young in the field. We do not make them crawl and beg. We help. We were there once. We know how it feels to be a feral dog in eyes both enemies and allies. We know how it feels to be left behind. We do not leave ours behind”.

You that lives long enough to get a little bit closer in experience and skills to mammoths that helped you years ago to survive.

You who patiently covers for young cadet as they fumble with terminals.

What’s a little time wasted if this one might live long enough to crawl higher in rank.

What’s a little effort spared if you as divers already have to prove to everyone that you deserve to be here.

That you are not just dogs. That you deserve the same respect command shows to other branches.

You aren’t going to make cadet “prove themselves” when they have already passed the selection.

They are already here, aren’t they? Means they are worthy. Means they are yours.

Once Helldiver — always Helldiver.

It’s a constant journey and an uphill battle, you seeing first hand how fucking cruel life is to their branch.

How unfair command is. How hard missions are.

So what’s a little kindness shown if cadet behind them might live long enough to see the new generation of cadets.

If one day they too might become what you were to them today. What older Helldivers were to you when you started out.

Your branch is full of feral dogs and behemoths of battle, your branch is a dangerous thing (a grenade without a pin, a rifle without safety, a big bad wolf) hanging on by a thread of believing that your suffering can make the world a little better.

A little safer. A place where young cadets like this one will have more support, more training, more respect.

Simon watches you intently, eyes heavy with understanding, fingers twitching to reach out.

“Remember that you can’t save everyone, Captain”, he hums out, meeting your eyes in the reflection as you watch cadet buying new stratagems with excitement, their rank plate moving up.

Slowly, torturously slowly but steadily. Up-up-up.

They live thought the mission. They live through next three you walk them through. You won’t let them die. Not if you can help it.

“I know”, you muse back and there is phantom feel of hands on your shoulders, hands showing how to properly hold the rifle, hands dragging you out of hell because yeah, no one is gonna save Helldivers.

Other than Helldivers themselves.

You watch the young diver jog to the “Stratagem Hero” arcade, practically vibrating with excitement, eyes darting to you, asking for permission.

Their grin so wide when you nod to go ahead and try it, that you feel like their helmet might be illuminated from inside out.

They are painfully young and achingly fragile, not yet honed by years of work out in the field, their hands not yet calloused and burned one too many times.

Yeah, you remember that you can’t save everyone.

You also remember that you have to try.

[transmutationisms]

Im wondering if you have any thoughts on the conception of NEET (no school/work/training) through an antipsych lense. I'm not in the internet culture of NEET like that, but I am in my late 20s, been unemployed the vast majority of my adult life, put in therapy/SSRIs from age 16 on for severe depression that made it difficult to go to school or now to move out and get a job, and this is more of a 'sky is blue' sentiment but everything people say therapy can help with (talking through problems, paid unconditional support, connecting people with resources, prescribing meds through legal channels, getting accomodations, etc) would all of it be vastly more effective and safe if not mediated through a field that gatekeeps and actively weaponizes all of those things by literal design. When people talk about the difference between licensed and unlicensed therapists, the rankings of therapy vs psychologist vs psychiatrist vs what level of training, I just like have to ask if these people think someone with the ability to get a license or complete an education is automatically more unbiased/successful in their approach by virtue of that ability, but especially when their degree means they've just been specially taught to pin any perceived deviance back into an acceptable (read: functional, productive to capital) state. I've been told so many times by a therapist that a job would fix me as a teenager, and now the same after burning out of employment twice after roughly a year as an adult, and no one with a sense of ethics in the industry knows what to do when it doesn't work (those without just escalate to more extreme methods, drugs/withholding of drugs, threats, etc). I can't do shit without a job, I can't get a job, I can't get accomodation without putting myself in danger, so therefore I feel like shit, and I don't want to feel better just so I can survive the grinder in a more seemly manner. I once summarize this to a psych I thought was chill to express why I wanted to go off my SSRI and she threatened to hospitalize me.

yeah i mean, this is one way you can see the glaring lacuna between how ppl talk about psy-sciences (they're there to help you) vs what they actually exist for & do (they're there to plug an existing or perceived economic gap). i also just don't think it's morally shameful to be a neet lol ik we're all doing the 'i don't dream of labour' discourse rn but i'm not talking about the necessary labour sustaining a society that exists to provide for people, i'm talking about capitalism where education and jobs are kept behind class barriers and are miserable and impossible for many people to have & hold for various reasons. anyway im sorry this is happening to you, it's evil & sucks & everyone telling you to go to therapy about it should shut the fuck up or kill themselves

[strawberrystepmom]

gojo and f!reader are in a semi established relationship aka idiots in love. they are around 25 and 24 here respectively. reader is described as having hair that can be tied back from her face with a ribbon, no use of nicknames. wc 1.8k

divider thanks to @/cafekitsune as always!!!!

There’s a velvet ribbon on Gojo Satoru’s bedroom floor. 

There’s very little light in the room but the moon catches the sheen of the fabric just right and he bends at the waist to pick it up, smoothing his thumb over the soft beneath it just like he’s tempted to do to your cheek, eyes instantly drifting to the bed as he rises, ribbon wrapped around his palm. It’s as blue as the sky or, as the admittedly full of himself man assumes, his eyes and he flexes his hand to hold the fabric taut.

It must have been tossed off during the events of the past evening, it was tied around your neck at one point as a makeshift accessory, and the blurry memories make him blush slightly to recall, cheeks heating if he thinks too long about the bounce of your body against his. He chooses to focus instead on the here and now, what’s in front of him, than recall memories and he steps closer to the edge of your side of the bed. 

You slumber mere inches from where he’s standing, your body tangled in soft sheets. One of your feet sticks out, one of your arms is tossed over your eyes despite the black mask covering them (his, of course), and your hair sticks up over the edge of the duvet that otherwise obscures the rest of your face. He supposes he’ll leave you alone for now, choosing instead to rub his thumb over the ribbon again. It’s a close enough match for your cheek that it’ll simply have to sate his endless hunger to feel you until the sun rises. 

Plucking his phone from his pocket to glance at the time with his unoccupied hand, he groans and blue eyes narrow looking over the little numbers on the screen. 4:15 am. Too early for you to be awake. Probably too early for him as well but there’s nothing that can be done about that besides toss and turns until he disturbs you so he pads quietly across the floor, headed toward the kitchen, ribbon tangled between his fingers until he shoves it into his pocket to get the day really started.

This is all routine for him. Waking up, wandering around, finding you all over his apartment - your purse on the floor by the door, the blanket you’ve had since you were a child on top of a basket in the living room, a tube of lip balm across the kitchen counter from him. 

Pulling the coffee beans from the jar on the counter, dumping them into the grinder, one two three pulses for the perfect consistency to allow the water to best soak the bean fragments. He reaches into a cupboard and slips his mug out, buried behind a sea of your own that have gradually taken up every corner of the shelf, but he doesn’t mind having all of these little reminders of you around.

For far too long you resisted leaving any trace of yourself behind and now his bathroom counter is gradually getting more crowded with each overnight product you “forget” to take with you when you leave. The dresser he bought specifically for you, the jumbled way you leave your shoes at the front door. His space is no longer just his, it’s yours too and he ponders what that means to himself while idly sticking his hand in his pocket and waiting for water to heat, rubbing the ribbon.

The sleek electric kettle he turned on 8 minutes ago clicks to let him know the water is hot enough to pour and he drops four sugar cubes into a mug, setting up the rest of his pour over system with a small yawn. The kitchen bursts with the fresh scent of coffee and he hears rustling from the other side of the apartment that tells him it’s time to start making yours, pulling another cup from the cupboard and placing it next to his, dropping two cubes to his four inside. 

It’s just how things should be, he thinks. No more going between two places and scurrying back to your apartment, he wants you here. It’s selfish to demand you give him the space you’ve shown him you desire to maintain but isn’t it equally selfish and punishing for you to deny him? It isn’t often anyone does that and you’re the only person who seems to get away with it. 

Speaking of, he hears your shuffling footsteps across the floor and pours water over the top of your mug and the sugar cubes nestled in the bottom of it, fresh coffee trickling down into the ceramic below. 

“Oh there she is,” he sings and you groan, wrapped in the duvet you pulled off of the bed with you. Again, this is something only you’d be able to get away with and he grins at your partially opened eyes and the way your head pops out of the fabric. Your hair’s a mess, you’re hardly coherent, but you smell coffee and a small smile slips across your face. 

Satoru opens his arms and beams, watching you shuffle slowly across the kitchen floor. Each step makes you feel more alive until you find yourself face first in his chest, burying your nose in the fabric of his sleep shirt. He dips his head to kiss the top of yours and you giggle, still heavy with sleep. 

“Good mornin’,” your voice is obscured thanks to where you’re pressed against him but he doesn’t struggle to make out what you’re saying, smoothing a big hand over your blanket covered back. 

“Good morning sunshine,” he sings in return, awfully musical this morning, but you grin and unbury your head from the blanket, pulling it away as one would a cloak. He gasps when he sees your face and you roll your eyes in response, puckering and craning your head for a kiss, uncaring about silly things like morning breath or drool around your mouth because you know he’ll kiss you regardless.

Satoru does, of course, with a dramatic flourish and a smack and a hum. The drip, drip, drip of your coffee tapers off and you smile as he leans away from you, reaching behind himself to grab two cups of coffee. You wrap your arms around his waist and he looks around, lost, knowing he can’t walk you to the living room and hold the coffees so he kisses your forehead and hands you yours, one of your hands surfacing from a gap in the duvet that covers you.

“Come on, sleepyhead. Walk with me.”

He instructs and you follow, waddling behind him with both of your hands pressed to the sides of your mug. The duvet drags and he plops down on the living room sofa, holding his coffee high above his head so that you can slide into your normal place - your chest pressed against his and you straddling his thighs and hips. He holds you against your chest and you let the duvet hang off of your body, finally awake enough to emerge from your proverbial cocoon.

Pulling his coffee back down and sipping from it, he lets you further settle against his chest and kisses your forehead, pushing your messy hair off of your face. You look up at him with a sleepy smile and sip from your own mug, blinking slowly to further rise for the day. Looking down at you he wants to keep you just like this, every morning, forever, and he can’t pretend he doesn’t want it anymore, his brows raised.

“Move in with me.”

You giggle, shaking your head to brush your hair off of your face without use of your hands.

“So good last night you don’t want me to leave?”

He chuckles, putting his coffee down on the table to the left of him and digging in his pocket, producing the ribbon. It catches your eye and you smile, reaching out to touch it and giggling when he wraps it around your hair and ties it messily, successfully getting all but a few strands off of your pretty face. 

“Can’t ever let you leave after that, what kind of man would I be?”

You giggle but Satoru wonders for a moment if it would be so bad to tell you the truth - that he doesn’t want a single corner of his life unoccupied by you, the warm light you emit just by naturally being you makes his apartment feel like a home. It’s terrifying, though, to consider being bare and truthful and he’s been trying to do it more lately. To give you a glimpse inside of himself the way he so easily sees inside you. 

The truth will come out eventually, he decides. It always does. A lopsided grin comes across his face and he looks down at you, long lashed eyes fluttering and making you smile. He yanks on the makeshift ponytail your hair is tied into and you frown playfully at him, jutting your lower lip out. 

“That’s not a very nice way to treat your live-in girlfriend.”

His eyes widen and you don’t miss the little light within them when he glances at you. He may intentionally hide how he’s feeling but they never do and you press your face back into his chest and he plucks your coffee from your hand, wrapping his own around the warmth. 

“You mean it?”

He holds the mug to your lips and tips it enough that you can sip and you nod, swallowing with a smile. 

“I’m here all the time anyway, even when you’re gone. I can’t remember the last time I went to my apartment, this is home.”

Home. The word sits heavily between the two of you but neither one moves to say anything further, Gojo tipping your mug toward your lips again to let you take a sip while you cling to his chest. There has always been a makeshift home for the other in each of you, arms and hearts and less wholesome places where the two of you have made the other belong, but a tangible place for the two of you to share feels different.

It feels good.

He leans forward and kisses the top of your head, pulling you across his lap and closer to his chest. There’s no space between the two of you, just as he likes it, and he feels indescribable fondness imagining doing this every single day from now on, not just after a wild night that left you too sleepy to return home.

“Welcome home then, I guess.” 

You giggle and nod, keeping your head pressed against his chest. 

“Now you’ll never get rid of me.”

 A lovesick half smile you can’t see dances across his face and he rocks you gently in his arms, making you whine and try to push him off. It’s no use. It’s not like you’re really trying anyway and he dips down to kiss your cheek, keeping his lips pressed against the soft, velvety skin even as he speaks.

“That’s the plan.”

[bracketsoffear]

Body Terror Song (AJJ) "I'm so sorry that you have to have a body. I'm so sorry that you have to have a body, oh yeah. I'm very sorry that you have to have a body. One that will hurt you, and be the subject of so much of your fear. It will betray you, be used against you, then it'll fail on you my dear…"

The Grinder (from the sky) (Cone Poem) It’s a song about feeding people into a meat grinder that fell from the sky as a form of worship.

Timothy (The Buoys) "Timothy" is about three trapped miners, waiting for rescue with no food. When they escape, only two men are left. The song and the narrator dance around the subject, but there's no real sublety in the music and lyrics. The narrator can say that he doesn't remember, but he knows what he did. The Buoys' record label was not going to help promote their music, so they decided to release a single that was distrubing and controversial enough to generate its own buzz. It worked, because the subject matter is so unexpected in this sort of pop music. The circumspect nature of the lyrics also forces the listers to figure out what happened to Timothy themselves, which helps create a dawning sense of horror and disbelief. I think that this very personal story of cannibalism and some of the descriptions in the lyrics [Joe said that he would sell his soul / For just a piece of meant] [My stomach was full as it could be / And nobody ever got around / To finding Timothy] make this song feel like The Flesh.

[margaretoakgrove]

KARL HEISENBERG CONCEPT ART

● Karl Heisenberg

↳ Heisenberg's main concept is based on Frankenstein. We wanted to create a cool gray-haired character who was a little rough around the edges. He smokes his favorite Cuban cigars.

↳ An early draft of Heisenberg's family. The biggest difference was that Heisenberg was going to be a twin and his mother was a subject for brain experiment.

● Mutated Heisenberg

↳ We went for a look that was the opposite of his human form, a giant mechanical monster. The design based on the idea that he uses scrap left scattered around the factory. He owns weapons from tanks and planes, and has mountains of scrap for his mass-produced experiments.

● Mutated Heisenberg in Detail

↳ The original design was based on the splendid royale moth caterpillar. We wanted him to look like he moved on treads and be faster than any other boss monster.

↳ Heisenberg's father was going to be the leader of the village, and the boss fight with the mechanical mutation was originally going to be with him.

↳ Concept art of a day in the life of Heisenberg. Night after night his modified henchmen dig up corpses from the graveyard to be used in his metal army.

● Soldat Eins

↳ We called these enemies "Drillman" for a long time during development because one arm was replaced with a drill. The idea for these enemies is they have a reactor inside their chests with the parasite inside that acts like an internal combustion engine. The goggles are units that Heisenberg uses to control them.

↳ Designs for various Soldat reactors, but the final design was a grotesque mechanical heart.

● Soldat Panzer

↳ We consciously created the enemies in the factory to be different so they didin't just terrify players but also created a strong sense of anticipation. The design was based on Western medieval armor and helmets.

● Soldat Jet

↳ We were really attached to the name "Jet Drill" during development. They use jets on their backs and their heads look like fighter planes. The design is similar to the horseshoe crab. We designed the front and back with different amounts of detail so the back would be particularly shocking.

● Sturm

↳ The propeller on his head is made from three chainsaw blades. He chopped his own arms off when they got in the way of the spinning blades. There was one plan to have the Sturm be Heisenberg's real father. And during development he was called "Propeller Man."

● Bridge Ruins

↳ Concept art for the bridge to Heisenberg's factory. It was initially going to be just to the side of the path leading to the Altar ruins.

● Sturm Attacks

↳ Sturm chasing Ethan down a narrow corridor, destroying everything in his way.

● Giant Cavern

↳ The concept art for Heisenberg kicking Ethan down into the hole and the giant cavern under the factory.

● Casting Machine

↳ A casting machine which uses molds to create objects made out of cast iron. This concept for a puzzle was around since early development as a way to create a key.

● Foundry

↳ This room was once only used for casting iron but Heisenberg ended up utilizing it for his experiments. This room links to the hidden engine room.

● Engine Room

↳ An engine room powered by giant pistons.

↳ Concept art for Heisenberg's factory where Ethan is chased by the Soldat series. If the reactors in their chests are destroyed then the parasite inside will attempt to escape.

● Grinder Shaft Fight

↳ A fight inside the grinder shaft. These were early designs for the Soldat Jet. We originally imagined a space where they could freely fly about.

● Heisenberg's Key

↳ We went with a design that had a powerful looking horse just like the one on Heisenberg's crest.

● Start of the Battle With Heisenberg

↳ Concept art for the flow of events leading up to the battle with Heisenberg. We pictured Ethan falling into the pit around dusk and returning from it to a dark stormy night sky. The general layout of events didin't change much from early development.

● Mutated Heisenberg-Fight 1

↳ Concept art for the boss fight with Heisenberg. Even early on in development this battle was going to commence with a self-propelled artillery. The only difference is that in the final version, Heisenberg is not defeated using falling transmission towers.

● Mutated Heisenberg-Fight 2

↳ We figured that Heisenberg's yard would be full of scrap and vehicles, which he uses during the fight.

↳ Boss fight with mutated Heisenberg where he turns into his final form.

[anarchypumpkincowboy]

Seeing posts from folks getting genuinely angry at the intrepid heroes and Brennan (or putting full blame on the ih and acting like Brennan can’t handle a campaign) for them taking out opponents is like… like I’m not one to say “go touch some grass” but if you’re getting so angry over not just a dnd show but over the characters trying to stay alive by taking out their enemies then please go look at the fucking sky or read a fanfic or log off like wtf y’all??? I think rat grinder redemption arc would be great too but you cannot genuinely expect the bad kids to let themselves be killed by trying to non lethally attack these fucking insanely high level enemies

Cause the rat grinders aren’t gonna just be convinced to not do this, regardless of possession or not they’re pretty in with the plan and they’re also really high level like a lv9 spell?? What else would you expect the bad kids to do?? If I were in the campaign I too would be going for the kill. It’s the smart move. And also the finale is next week like if they’re gonna get to revive Lucy they’ll also more than likely revive the others they have to kill

Just log off a bit and chill the fuck out it’s just a show

[chaos-chloe]

Simple Moments 

Summary: A Soft Lover day with Your husband Pezzy

TW: wholesome, Husband!Pezzy

No harsh digital bleat to tear us from the velvet hush of sleep, just the gentle creep of morning light through the bedroom curtains, painting stripes across our rumpled duvet.

I became aware of Pezzy first, his arm a warm weight around my waist, his breath soft against my neck. I shifted, burrowing deeper into his side, and felt his arm tighten, pulling me closer still.

"Morning, love," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, a low rumble that vibrated through my chest.

"Mmm, morning," I mumbled back, not even attempting to open my eyes. This was the best part of these days – the slow, indulgent stretch between sleep and wakefulness that was entirely ours.

He began to trace slow, lazy patterns on my arm, his fingers warm and familiar against my skin. There was no rush to get up, no agenda to fulfill. The world outside could hum and bustle, but our little cocoon was impenetrable.

Eventually, the lure of coffee became too strong. Pezzy, ever the gentleman on these days, untangled himself with a soft groan and kissed my forehead. "Coffee patrol," he announced, his voice still a bit gravelly, but with a happy lilt.

I heard the gentle clinking of mugs from the kitchen, the soft whir of the grinder, then the rich, intoxicating aroma began to drift in. By the time he returned, balancing two steaming mugs and a plate of his perfectly buttered toast, I was propped up against the pillows, a warm smile ready for him.

"You're the best," I said, reaching for my mug, the warmth radiating through my hands.

"Only for you," he replied, settling back down beside me, propped up against the headboard, his knee brushing mine under the covers. We ate slowly, sipping our coffee, talking in soft murmurs about nothing important – a funny dream, a silly plan for the garden, or just enjoying the comfortable silence.

Later, we migrated to the living room, a soft blanket draped over us even though it wasn't particularly cold. Pezzy put on a playlist of low-key instrumental music, the kind that was there but didn't demand attention. I nestled into his side on the sofa, my head on his shoulder, and watched as he absently stroked my hair.

He picked up a book, and I grabbed my own, but neither of us truly read. We'd glance at each other, a shared smile, a silent "I love you" passing between us. He'd adjust the blanket if I shivered, or reach for my hand to interlace our fingers. I'd nudge his foot with mine, or offer to get him a refill of tea.

The spoiling wasn't about grand gifts; it was in these small, constant acts of awareness and affection. It was Pezzy offering to rub my temples when he saw me squinting, or unwrapping my favorite chocolate bar and placing a piece in my mouth without me asking. It was me noticing his shoulders were tense and gently kneading them, or making sure his favorite cozy socks were within reach.

Lunch was a simple affair – leftover pasta warmed up, eaten directly from the pot on the coffee table because why bother with plates? We laughed about something silly, food-related, smudges of sauce on our chins. Pezzy then insisted on doing the minimal dishes, shooing me back to the sofa with a playful push.

The afternoon melted into more of the same. We watched an old, comforting movie, one we both knew by heart, pausing it often for a cuddle, a kiss, or a little dance in the living room when a particularly good song came on. Pezzy even gave me a luxurious 15-minute foot rub, his thumbs working magic on my tired arches, while I drifted in and out of a blissful daze. I reciprocated with a long, slow scalp massage that had him sighing with contentment.

As evening approached, the sky outside began to turn dusky pinks and soft blues. We didn't bother with anything complicated for dinner. Maybe a charcuterie board with all our favorite cheeses and crackers, or ordering in from that new quirky place down the street. The food was secondary to the company.

Finally, as the stars began to prickle through the darkening sky, we found ourselves back in our bedroom. Pezzy pulled back the duvet, inviting me in. We lay facing each other, his hand resting on my cheek, his thumb gently stroking.

"Best day," I whispered, my voice thick with contentment.

He smiled, that soft, knowing smile that always melted me. "Every day with you is the best day, but these... these are special." He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, then my forehead, then just rested his forehead against mine.

The feeling of being utterly seen and cherished washed over me. No demands, no expectations, just pure, unadulterated love. This soft domesticity, this quiet spoiling, this loving on each other in the most gentle, profound ways – it wasn't just a day, it was the essence of us. And as Pezzy pulled the covers up around us, our bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, I knew I was exactly where I belonged. Safe, profoundly loved, and utterly content.

[bloodyshadow1]

I hate the people who say the final battle in Ragenarok was too easy. It wasn't easy, it was a hard battle, but the Bad Kids/Intrepid Heroes did everything right.

There were 8 combatants on the field at the start. 6 of the rat grinders, who had low health but the high level abilities of their classes, and 1 high level full PC, and 1 high level paladin/barbarian multiclass with resistance to everything, legendary actions and resistances, who could deal force damage.

On the Bad Kids side, they were level 14 who had just gone through a battle that exhausted a lot of resources, Fig and Fabian used a couple of spells and bardics and their limited amount of spells, Gorgug used a couple of his rages, Adaine used all of her portents and a bunch of spells, and between ice feast, healing, and removing levels of exhaustion, Kristen and K2 were love on spells. Riz was the only one who was looking pretty decent because he can use sneak attack all day, and even he used one of his 2 3rd level spells.

They were smart though, they Ice Feast was a broken ability for the final battle that Brennan didn't think through when he home brewed it for Ally. Not only did it block Porter's stun which would have been devastating, it made them immune to fire damage on a map with a lot of lava. He didn't think it through and the Intrepid Heroes used it to full effect. Still, it was good for them, but Ice Feast is still just a reskin of Heroes feast with better options but more detrimental effects.

As for the battle itself, the Bad Kids played it smart, it was only due to good initiative rolls that they managed to stomp the rat grinders so hard in the first round. If Oisin got a chance to go, if Mary Ann was outside the range of slow, things would have been different since they had low stats, but level 20 abilities and spells could have wreaked the Bad Kids. It wasn't an easy fight, but it was a fight with an intentional purpose, the Bad Kids are good at being adventurers while the Rat Grinders took the easy way out and showed the different between being powerful and being strong. They took out the primary caster first as you should do in big pc vs pc battles like this, they made sure to target groupings of enemies with AOEs and crowd control, they made sure to support each other and disrupt their enemies support. It wasn't easy, but they are good at dnd so they made it look easy.

I've seen people say, 'Brennan should have x' and no he shouldn't have. He created a hard combat encounter, but his players did everything right this season, a DM shouldn't punish or railroad their players just because their players are good at the game. No, the players stop the big bad from being released so they don't have to fight them, the DM shouldn't just make the Ancient God break through the bindings just because they planned for that encounter. The players won before it started and they should be rewarded for that.

'the rat grinders should have had a back up plan.' The Rat Grinders did have a backup plan. The initial plan to get Kipperlily fairly elected failed, and the back up plan, when that didn't work, the backup plan was to get Kristen expelled so she couldn't run. When that didn't work they sent the Bad Kids, their allies, and anyone who would vote for Kristen into the sky, flew them miles away, and sicced a horde of dragons and a goddess on them to kill them or at the very least get them out of their hair for 1 night so their plan could work. The Bad Kids beat their plans every time so no, there was no reason to have a 4th backup plan in the final battle. Brennan is a good DM, he didn't make the Rat Grinders and Porter's plan work because it was stopped before it started with the fake goddess name. He didn't punish his players for being good at the game and their strategy is great.

Things could have gone so differently with a slight change or a big change. If Fig didnt' decide to try and be a paladin on a whim, things would have been completely different, they wouldn't have had a connection with Ankarna. If Adaine didn't take Legend Lore they wouldn't have found out about Porter, maybe they would have still gotten the background on Ankarna, but not about his family revealing the Big Bad early on. If they chose to do something else with the power they got from the pride armor, they wouldnt' have the gem to free Bakur or save Lydia meaning no back up in the final fight. What if Gorgug rolled lower on one of his artificer tracks, they might not have passed the last stand. What if Fabian choose to keep pursing Ivy instead of Mazey, would have have been killed by the Rat Grinders or would Mazey have been compelled to their side if he didn't try and romance her. If Riz ran for president instead of Kristen would he have been less stressed or more inclined to focus on that instead of mystery his true love. What if Kristen didn't eat the eye of the Vulture king at the right time and catch Kipperlily about to murder Gavin forcing her to change her target to Buddy.

And it worked against them too. What If Fig didn't inspire Cassandra and knock her out leading her to become the Nightmare King again? What if Adaine didn't counterspell Grix's disintegrate on Ruben, he might have been a pile of dust that would have been hard to impossible to bring back to life disrupting the Rat Grinder's plan. What if Kristen decided to not get upset at Cassandra forcing the Goddess to recreate Kalina. What if Adaine didn't say Ankarna's name outloud the first time she saw it? What if Fig didn't make the deal to have a second chance sealing the Night Yorb? What if Riz and Gorgug did relationship tracks with their families making it harder to do their other tracks. What if Fabian cleaned his house even once and got rid of the pingpong balls that Oisin enchanted to screw them over. What if Riz had time to focus on mystery from the start instead of running Kristen's campaign for her and taking more stress.

There were so many times that things could have gone so much better or so much worse, but that's what the game is. There is no script that says the good guys have to keep losing until they win. It's decisions and dice, luck and wits that make the game. It was a very hard season, the battles were very hard, just because they made the right decisions to make things easier on themselves doesn't change that. It doesn't make the season bad. You're welcome to not like it, but nothing about it was easy and people shouldn't pretend like it was because they don't like it

[her-satanic-wiles]

October 29th

Breathplay, Swiss x Reader

Masterlist

Words: 4.2k.

Warnings: Breathplay; choking; Ghoul!Reader; public beginning; semi-public ending; public dry humping; dubcon; listen, I can’t help myself, okay?; they get real fucking awkward someone slap ‘em; finger sucking; fingering; squirting; positive degradation (took me 29 days but we got there in the end); possessive (if you squint); dacrophilia; unprotected sex; piv; vaginal sex; I went feral lmao; spit kink; cock warming;

Taglist: @sodoswitchimage @enchantedbunny @bitchywitchygardener @thew0man @sodomiser @the-did-i-ask @copias-sewer-rat @gehrmansbignaturals @deetz-ghuleh @onlyhereforghost @zombiesnips-blog @saturnhas82moons

Author's Note: Major thanks to @da-rulah for giving me this idea, like legit, this was all her idea. She’s the organ grinder, I’m just the monkey. Inspired by… recent events.

Recommended listening: Hypnosis by Sleep Token.

🔞 MDNI 🔞

It started with Dewdrop.

You danced on your podium stage, the roar of the crowd echoing in your ears as Watcher In The Sky droned on. The blinding spotlight followed your every move as you took your place behind the microphone, a sea of faces stretching out before you. The anticipation in the air was electric, and you could feel the bass thumping through the stage floor, matching the rhythm of your racing heart.

From the corner of your eye, underneath the mask, you saw him charging towards Dew at an alarming rate, his broad shoulders tense and fists clenched. It didn’t register fully until you got a good view of his body, and then you realised it was Swiss. Swiss was usually feral during this song - you’d seen clips of him online afterwards if you’d missed it during the concert. But usually he kept his insanity to his corner of the stage. Not tonight, though. Tonight he was gunning for the source of his anguish - tonight he was racing towards Dewdrop and his guitar that was loudly whining in everyone’s ears.

The first time it happened, it was just a scream. Well, a scream and a bite, but it wasn’t anything more than that. Harmless, really… even though it did set you on edge. There was something equally thrilling yet terrifying about seeing this big, burly man, who was usually the sweetest guy, angrily charge at someone so small in comparison; but also knowing that he had gained the confidence to wander around. You weren’t forbidden to leave your individual stages per se, but Papa did prefer it if you stayed in your place.

This was also amongst all the things he was doing with the other Ghouls - namely with Aurora. The way he got on his knees for her every time Cirice played, every time he pretended to pleasure her, sent shockwave after shockwave through your body. And the night they kissed? You felt the green-eyed-monster make an ugly appearance, and wished that was you.

The next time it happened, things got a little more… heated. His strong hands wrapped themselves around Dew, engulfing his entire hip and front. His large frame dwarfed the Ghoul in comparison and completely hid him from your view. You couldn’t see what Swiss was doing to him, but judging by the repetitive movements his arm and shoulder were doing you could easily come to a general conclusion.

The third night was worse… so. Much. Worse. You watched as Swiss wrapped his large hand around Dew’s neck, gently choking him while imitating jerking himself off. It definitely shouldn’t have done things to you. It definitely shouldn’t have made you think the things you did. It was just two guys playing around on stage… sure their game got a little sexual, but there was no harm done and the crowd certainly enjoyed it. That night though, as he was walking away, he made eye contact with you and caught your mouth agape. That night, he decided he was going to come and hang out with you for a few songs.

The next day, as you were putting your uniform on and painting your face the typical Ghoul style, a knock wrapped at your door. “Come in!” You shouted. Your body froze when Swiss walked through the door.

“Hey, loser.” He teased as he usually did, leaning up against the door frame. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his gorgeous forearms that were crossed against the broad expanse of his chest - and you weren’t at all staring at the way that position pushed his breasts together to create a tempting amount of cleavage, visible only by the crease of his shirts. The leg he wasn’t resting on had also crossed over his body, and stabled him a little more by the toe of his boots.

You cleared your throat and looked back to the mirror, picking up your black paint box and scooping more up onto your finger. “Hey, loser. Did you not have anything better to do than watch me get ready?”

He tutted. “Now, can’t a guy come and visit his favourite Ghoul before a concert for a little conversation? What if I was Rain, hm?”

“Well, if you were Rain then I’d be much kinder. But you’re you. You want something. Spill.”

He sighed. “Fine,” he raised his hands in defeat, “you got me. How’s about we play a little game on stage tonight?” He walked over to you and stood behind your chair, looking at you in the mirror. His hands rested on your shoulders and gave you a little rub.

“What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll choke you instead of Dew.”

You tried not to react in any incriminating way - this was Swiss you were talking to. If he saw a flicker of anything besides absolute disdain or unbothered attutitudes, he’d rib you for the rest of time. You swallowed, and continued applying your paints. “Why me? The crowd loves that gay shit and what you do to Dew. Hell, they love what you do to Aurora, too.”

“Yes, but,” he leaned down so his mouth was level with your ear, his deep voice dropping low, “you love it, too, don’t you?” You froze. “I’ve caught your face. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, you know?” He stood back upright. “Unless you actively stop me, I’m going to play with you tonight. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Silence.

He tapped your shoulder and walked out of your dressing room. “See you tonight!”

You stepped onto the stage that night, the bright lights momentarily blinding you. The roar of the crowd echoed through the arena as the music began.Your thoughts kept drifting to Swiss—and whatever the hell it was that he had planned.

Swiss stood there, his presence commanding and his voice a captivating force. His every move seemed to draw you in, and you found it hard to concentrate on your own performance. The lyrics you were supposed to sing became a blur as you watched him, transfixed by his talent and charisma.

You tried to focus on your harmonies and choreography, but Swiss’s magnetic presence was an irresistible distraction. Every time your eyes met his, a spark of connection passed between you, intensifying the infatuation that had taken hold of your heart.

The familiar darkness of Cirice screamed through your in-ears, and you looked back over to Swiss’ podium but he was missing. Nowhere to be found. Given your conversation earlier, and his habit of going feral during Watcher in the Sky, you assumed he would do something then. It wasn’t until you felt his hands around your neck you realised he had other intentions. His fingers clasped your neck as the intro reached its pace change, the tips of each appendage falling onto your throat seductively, as though he were drumming on a desk and using his thumb as an anchor. You felt his helmet connect with yours and his body press up against your back. The longer he stayed there, hands attached to your throat, the tighter they held, squeezing the sides of your esophogus like an anaconda about to feed. Of course, he didn’t restrict your air flow. Of course, his hands tightened in all the correct places that made you feel lightheaded without damaging your body.

Of course he knew how to do that.

You couldn’t hear anything, or take in what else was going on. Your mind was consumed by his hand, and now something else pressing into your hip you didn’t expect to come out and play. The feeling of your pulse quicken sent shockwaves through Swiss’ body upon the realisation that you enjoyed this. You liked feeling his hand around your throat. You liked how hard he was squeezing. He placed his other hand on your hip and, clearly thinking only with his dick, rutted into you. The first time was an accident, he told himself. The second, third and even fourth time was because you felt so good against him, he couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t until he heard Papa singing the opening lyric, he remembered where he was, and that you both had to stop. So, he pulled away, and rushed back to his own stage.

After the adrenaline of the concert had faded, you found yourself back in your hotel room, still buzzing with the memory of Swiss’s hands haunting your mind, and you swore you could still feel his fingers ghosting your skin. As you tried to unwind, there was a sudden knock on your hotel room door.

Startled, you crossed the room and opened the door to find Swiss standing there, his expression a mix of nervousness and determination. He had sought you out, and it was clear he wanted to talk.

“Hey,” he began, his voice a little uncertain. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened tonight. I-”

“Come in.” You said, opening your door wider and allowing him to enter.

“Thank you. I just wanted to apologise for crossing a line tonight.” You closed the door behind him. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t have any excuses. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise, I-”

“I crossed boundaries, I really-”

“I liked it!” The words spilled out of your mouth, revealing a depth of feeling you hadn’t intended to share just yet. Swiss’s surprise was evident, but his expression softened with understanding, and a hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips.

He took a step closer, his eyes searching yours for sincerity. “I… I didn’t realize,” he began, his voice laced with a touch of vulnerability. “Where do we go from here, exactly?”

To hell with it, you thought. The damage had already been done, you might as well just rip off the bandaid and get it over with. “You could do it again.”

“N-now?”

“If you want…”

“No, I want… to.” He swallowed. The man in front of you was now so far from the Swiss you knew. His confidence was… somewhere in the room. But nowhere near him at the present. A tinge of excitement mixed with the nervousness in Swiss’s eyes as he contemplated the idea of doing it again. It was a leap into uncharted territory for both of you, a risky move that could either cement your connection or create an irreparable divide. Yet, the allure of it was too strong to resist. “Can I kiss you?”

Your voice came out breathier than usual - breathier than it ought to be. “Yes.”

Swiss finally closed the gap, his lips touching yours softly at first, not wanting to let loose too quickly and scare you away. He’d already crossed multiple boundaries today, he couldn’t bring himself to cross another. His hands came to your biceps, thumbs rubbing over the clothed skin in a comforting up and down motion. It wasn’t until you’d decided you were ready for something more that he finally let up.

Still in his uniform, you grasped onto his collar and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss and earning a little grunt in response from him. His left hand travelled upwards as your tongue gained access to his mouth, and eventually you felt his bare palm over your neck, thick fingers gently squeezing at the sides. You whimpered into his mouth, the sound so delicious on his tongue and reverberating in his ears, sending blood rushing south. That one sound did things to him he had never imagined. That one sound made him vow that you were going to cum around his cock tonight, with his hand wrapped around your throat.

He broke the kiss to torment you further, as if his actions on stage the last few days hadn’t been enough. As he spoke, his hand remained on your throat, and his voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you? I can feel your shakes of excitement. Those moans. The light in your eyes.”

“Please.” You said. As he squeezed at the sides, you could feel the restriction but not enough to cut of air supply entirely. Your head felt light and dreamy, eyes hooded with lust, hands grasping onto his forearms tightly to help you steady yourself. You begged, for what you couldn’t say. Maybe it was just force of habit; maybe it was your brain telling you to say it because he liked it; or maybe you wanted him to do unspeakable things to you while his fingers threatened to close your airways. A delirious smile painted on your face as though you were descending into madness the longer he touched you. His hand on your throat wasn’t enough for you. You imagined his other hand between your legs, dipped into your cunt. You wanted his fingers to violate you, roughly penetrate your walls and hit that spot hard over and over until you were screaming out for him.

Regardless, he approved, confirming this with a hum, voice so low it sounded like a tiger’s purr. “Please what? Use your words, tell me what you want.”

“Your hands.”

“My hands, hm? Doing what?”

“Touch me.”

He ghosted his lips over yours. “I am touching you.”

You took his free hand into yours and guided it to your waistband, dipping it below the fabric and hovering above your core, already wet and ready for him. “Here, too.”

“Greedy pup. No, baby. If I’m going to touch you, I’m going to do it properly.” He removed contact from you completely and took a step back. “Undress yourself.” You watched him remove the watch from his wrist, eyes fixated on his hands. “So desperate to have me touch you. Come on, baby. Don’t make me ask you again.”

You nodded dumbly, slowly removing items from your body until you stood bare in front of him. Swiss, in that time, had been removing his own clothes, except he was left only in his underwear. He placed one final kiss against your lips, feather-light and leaving you wanting, but still grateful for the attention. “On the bed, sweet baby. Spread your legs for me.” He instructed.

You followed his orders like a soldier to their commanding officer, eagerly hopping on the bed and exposing yourself to him. Where the confidence came from, you couldn’t say. In a normal situation, you’d be much more modest or tasteful with your movements, hesitant to expose yourself so readily. But there was something about Swiss’ commanding demeanor, his authoritative aura that had the hairs on your body stand on end, electrified in anticipation of what was to come. He had you wrapped around his little finger so quickly, it should have scared you. You weren’t one to easily submit. Yet you watched him climb over your body with hunger in your eyes, and mischief in his. You zealously sucked on his thick, middle fingers when he placed them in your mouth, and shivered when you felt them prod at your sopping entrance.

His digits met no resistance as they breached your walls, tapping the secret button inside that made your mouth fall open in complete pleasure. The squelch of your juices drowned out your little whimpers, and sped up as his tempo became more and more vigorous. Your body shook with the ferocity of his movements, and your fingers clutched onto the bedsheets to divert the energy from your mouth and cope with the overwhelming feeling boiling up inside you. You had to remind yourself of your location, that you were sharing a wall with a colleague and that you couldn’t be too loud; but Swiss simply tutted.

“Am I not making you feel good?”

You had to force air back into your lungs. “You are!”

“Then why can’t I hear you?”

“I-” You didn’t know what to say.

“Let me hear those slutty little moans, baby. Or I’ll stop.”

“No! Don’t stop, please don’t!”

“Then,” as he moved his fingers inside you, his other hand came to your throat, “be loud for me. And play with your clit.”

At the feeling of him restricting your esophagus again, combined with both of your hands working in tandem with each other, you had begun to reach heights you’d never been able to achieve with another person, even yourself. There were times when you were in the throes of touching yourself, when your own hand was desperately working yourself to orgasm, that you’d choke yourself in order to feel the ecstasy you were begging for. But it wasn’t quite the same - it never was. Yet now, your finger was frantically rubbing over yourself as your other hand moved from the bed sheets to clutch around his wrist as it gripped tightly to your neck, deliciously sending you back into that state of delirium.

Swiss knelt in between your legs, allowing your hips to buck wildly. His eyes were fixated on your face, cock hardening at the sight of you. Your eyes were rolling back into your skull, your mouth hanging open as if you were possessed. You were one tongue and a few tears away from a perfect ahegao, but there was still time. He’d make sure of it.

“Swiss!” You called out helplessly from below him, weak, vulnerable, half-crazy with the feelings he was making your body feel. He couldn’t deny just how delicious his name sounded coming from your swollen lips, oozing with need and desperation. Your mind was completely his; your body gifted to him willingly in your need to be choked and dominated. His name was the only thing you’d remember while he had you under his touch - under his fist. “G-gonna cum!”

“Yeah?” His voice was a little higher pitched, condescending. “Is my perfect girl gonna cum all over my fingers, hm?”

“Yes! Yes! Lucifer, yes!”

“No, no, no. Not on my watch, baby girl. Lucifer can’t make you feel this good. Who is?”

“You are!”

“Say my fucking name.”

“Swiss! Fuck! Cum-cumming!”

Vesuvius had nothing on your eruption. He paled in comparison to the earth-shattering explosion that set off inside you, and forced its way out without your knowledge. You poured yourself all over him, bathing him in your sacred water while your throat screamed bloody-murder beneath his hand. Fingernails dug into his skin as your body shook, cunt clenching tightly around him. Your vision, when you were able to think coherently again, was black in the corners from the intensity of your orgasm. As your orgasm subsided, Swiss’ hand pulled out of you and took over from yours, gently rubbing circles into your clit and making your body clench with little pockets of sensitive aftershocks. He wouldn’t stop until you told him to, and those words weren’t falling from your lips so he continued his ministrations, working you into over-sensitivity, gradually picking up the pace until his fingers were ferociously working you up towards a second orgasm; and you, the ever-willing recipient to his torture, accepted those gifts graciously, desperately calling his name as your mind went dumb from the pleasure.

Tears were falling from your eyes this time, and you clenched around nothing when you felt his broad tongue lick them from your face. All the while, his hand never left your throat.

His cock was girthy - average length but thick, and it met no resistance as it slid into you. His thigh hooked under your knee and lifted your leg further up the bed, allowing yourself to open up even more to him, and granting him the ability to bury himself all the way inside you, only stopping when there was nothing more to give. Every single one of your nerve-endings were standing on edge, holding matches to light the third fuse of the evening and preparing to hurt you in all the best ways. Swiss’ hand was on your throat, applying a similar amount of pressure as before while forcing your head in place to keep eye contact with him as he bottomed out. The drag of him against your walls, stretching you, filling you, was exquisite. His eyes, burning hotter than embers bore into your own, creating a depraved yet intimate moment as he geared up to fuck you into the mattress.

“Oh that’s fucking it, baby girl.” He moaned out in pleasure above you, savouring the tightness he’d buried himself inside. He removed the pressure from your neck to allow you some respite, but he kept it there to remind you of his intentions. “Fucking hell. If I’d known your cunt was this good I’d have taken you much sooner.” He began to thrust into you, resting most of his weight onto his other hand. His pubic mound rubbed against your clit, hairs tickling you and providing a small amount of stimulation. “This pussy was Hell-sent just for me, wasn’t it? Shit. So fucking perfect. You open up so well for me. So fucking wet for me, shit!”

He picked up speed. “Fucking ruining me. Why would I fuck another slut when I’ve got you, hm? So willing, and pliant,” he applied pressure again and watched your eyes light up, “and freaky. Oh shit!”

He was speechless for a while, focussing on the sound of your cunt swallowing him over and over again, squelching for him in appreciation of his hard work. He looked down to watch the cream of your pussy gathering around the base of his cock - well, all of it that wasn’t streaming down your folds and gathering on the sheets below you. So fucking tight and wet for him. He’d never been with anyone quite like you. The way your pussy opened up for him, the tears you were crying because of him, your screams of ecstasy. It was almost too much.

“Open up for me, baby girl.” He told you, and once you obliged, a string of his saliva dripped from his mouth into yours. He was laying claim to you wherever he could and groaned deeply when he felt you clench around him, becoming impossibly tighter. “Fucking hell - you loved that didn’t you? My beautiful, dirty whore. Touch yourself for me again.”

Your hand snaked down between your bodies to rub at your clit again, harshly and quickly stroking yourself in desperation of your third orgasm. You could tell that he wasn’t far off himself, erratic thrusts announcing how close he was. All the while, you were mewling beneath him - screaming for him. The drag of his cock against your walls, working alongside the tightness of his hand around your throat intermittently squeezing, was pulling you ever closer to the edge of euphoria. Just a little more and you’d fall - a little more and you’d be free.

“Swiss!” You shouted his name repeatedly, begging him over and over.

“I know, baby. I know. Keep going for me, that’s it. Fucking shit. I’m never gonna stop fucking this pussy. Where can I cum? Please tell me I can cum inside you.”

“Yes! I want it inside me. Give it to me, please!”

“Oh fuck! I couldn’t stop if you said no, baby. Can’t pull out. Too. Fucking. Good.” Each word was punctuated with a particularly hard thrust that sent your body up the bed a little. “You gonna cum, hm? Gonna cum on this goddamn dick?”

“Yes! Fuck, Swiss! You’re gonna make me cum!”

“Do it, baby. Cum for me.”

He tightened his grip one final time, keeping his pace while you kept yours. Your third orgasm was violent in all the best ways. Your vision was the first to go, eyes glazing over and rolling back as drool poured from your open mouth. Your hands cramped where they sat, digging your fingernails into his strong arm while rubbing your clit to completion with the other. Your back arched, your lungs refused to fill with air. Your voice was silent as your body convulsed in pure, unbridled pleasure while your mind swam with delirium from the subtle air restriction.

“There we go, baby girl. That’s it. Fuck - I’m g-gonna cum in this tight fucking cunt. Shit!”

Swiss came next, his seed pouring deep inside of you and painting your walls white. After your third orgasm, he selfishly chased his own, temporarily using you as a toy to tip himself over the edge and meet you in your euphoria.

Your hearts were racing from the adrenaline of the moment you’d just shared. Swiss could hear yours as he collapsed on your chest, his cock softening inside of you. You were both too tired to move, too sensitive to feel the cold. He wrapped your leg over his hip and rolled off you, hands and your leg pulling you with him. As soon as you both made eye contact again, his lips met yours in a desperate and needy kiss. This one, however, wasn’t intended to get you both riled up again ready for a second round, though, the longer your lips were attached and your hands roamed over his body, you could feel him chubbing up inside you. “You’re fucking incredible, you know that?” You whispered. “Thank you.”

Swiss chuckled. “I know, but it’s always nice to be reminded.” Another kiss, but this time your hand gripped onto his hair and pulled a little. “Don’t fucking do that or I’ll have to fuck you harder.”

You tugged again.

“___.” He warned.

You didn’t heed it and pulled one final time.

“Right,” he pulled out of you and flipped you on your stomach, “remember, you asked for this.”

Previous Day ⛧ Next Day

[sanders1665]

It’s the goddamn wee small hours, that sacred stretch of night when time melts into introspection and shadows become philosophers. The air is thick with silence, save for the occasional squelch of my gut, protesting the late-night slice of existential pizza I shouldn’t have eaten. No breeze, no barking dogs, no traffic. Just me, a mind wired on questions, and the ghost of a million ancestors staring back through my DNA like some cosmic jury.

I was thinking—no, spiraling—into the meat grinder of human origin. Twenty different species of humans? More or less. That’s not science fiction, that’s real. The Earth, this wild, bipolar rock hurtling through space, was busy being a chaotic chef: stirring up ice ages, flipping tectonic pancakes, belching fire from volcanoes like it had IBS. And in the middle of all that, it birthed and buried species after species of humans. Not chimps, not dolphins with dreams—humans.

And yet, we are the ones left. Alone. The sole survivors.

We who are hairless and helpless at birth, who need ten years to become barely functional, who sunburn and break bones and cry at reality shows. We who are, by all metrics, the weakest model on the showroom floor of evolution. Yet here we are. Shopping on Amazon. Building particle colliders. Taking selfies next to pyramids built by hands we don’t understand.

I don’t buy the official bedtime story they hand out in schools. You know the one—upright apes + time + bananas = smartphones. Something smells fishy, and it ain’t just the tuna sandwich from last week’s lunchbox. We didn’t just evolve like the rest. We appeared. With language, fire, and a suspicious amount of self-awareness. Right out of the blue. Like a magician’s trick—ta-da!—Homo sapiens, baby.

Were we an accident? A cosmic prank? Or a goddamn upgrade?

Or were we realigned and designed this way by “gods” from another neighborhood?

Not divine, not omnipotent, but advanced. Outsiders. Visitors. Tinkerers with an eye for biogenetics and a flair for myth-making. Creators not of galaxies, but of species. Maybe they didn’t paint the sky, but they sure as hell messed with the clay.

Sometimes I think we’re nature’s rebellious child, and sometimes... I think we’re adopted.

Maybe the old stories are half-true, twisted into myth because our ancestors didn’t have Wi-Fi or a printing press. Maybe the Watchers, the gods, the sky people—whatever name floats your boat—left fingerprints on our soul. Maybe we’re version 2.0 of something much older. Something that didn't survive. Something we erased, like jealous children.

And deep down—real deep, below the cholesterol and the hang-ups and the Amazon Prime history—I think we know. We feel it. That something’s off. That this isn’t quite home. That we were made for something else. Not this rat race. Not this tedium. Not this constant nagging anxiety about the future and the past like we’re stuck in a loop we didn’t write.

Maybe that’s why we build religions, and sci-fi stories, and monuments that stare at the stars.

We're trying to remember who we were... before we forgot what we are.

And so here I sit, in the dark belly of the night, brain buzzing, belly gurgling, wondering:

Were we born of Earth…

engineered on Earth…

or just parked here for a while, until someone comes back for the keys?

Either way, I’ll probably still wake up groggy tomorrow and forget the whole damn thing.

But for now, I’m wide awake. Watching. Listening.

Waiting for the stars to whisper back.

[avatarofthearchives]

Which Magnus Archive Event Correlates With Your Birthday

(If I didn't add your date it's because it doesn't have relevance to the series. Sorry!)

January 1 - The Season 4 trailer is released.

January 2 - Carlita Sloane gives a statement about her work on a lonely ship, and Peter Lukas makes his first appearance in the series. (MAG 33, Boatswain's Call.)

January 4 - The episode "The Uncanny Valley" is released. / Mikaele Salesa gives a statement about a meat grinder he once owned. (MAG 115, Taking Stock.) Adelard Dekker writes a letter to Gertrude about a man who explored an abandoned hall of mirrors. (MAG 156, Reflection.)

January 5 - The episode "Literary Heights" is released.

More Undercut Because Most Birthdays = "Color Of The Sky" Length Post

January 6 - Karolina Górka get's trapped on a dirty train. (MAG 71, Underground.)

January 7 - "The Act III Finale Trailer" is released. / Antonia Haley gives a statement about a deep dive they made for Simon Fairchild. (MAG 51, High Pressure.) Tessa Winters gives a statement about the internet urban legend Sergey Ushanka. (MAG 65, Binary,)

January 9 - "The Magnus Archives Blooper Special" is released.

January 10 - The episode "Far Away" is released.

January 11 - The episode "Dig" is released.

January 12 - The episode "The New Door" is released and Helen Richardson makes her first appearance in the series!

January 14 - The episode "Scavengers" is released.

January 17 - The episode "Zombie" is released. / Leanne Denikin gives a statement about the clown dolls and calliope in her Grandfather's attic. (MAG 24, Strange Music.)

January 18 - The episode "Twice As Bright" is released. / Vincent Yang accidentally touches one of Salesa's artifacts. (MAG 66, Held In Customs.)

January 19 - The episode "Lost In Crowd" is released. / Vincent Yang quits his job after being trapped in one of Salesa's artifacts. (MAG 66, Held In Customs.)

January 21 - The episode "What We Lose" is released.

January 22 - Adelard Dekker writes a letter to Gertrude about his belief in a new power emerging, The Extinction. (MAG 134, Time Of Revelation.)

January 23 - The episode "Web Development" is released.

January 25 - The episode "Body Builder" is released. / Karolina Górka gives her statement about being trapped on a dirty train. (MAG 71, Underground.)

January 26 - The episode "The Butcher's Window" is released.

January 28 - The episode "An Appointment" is released.

January 31 - The episode "Left Hanging" is released.

February 1 - The episode "The Coming Storm" is released. / Howard Ewing gives a statement about being interviewed by the police. (MAG 107, Third Degree.) Lorell St. John gives a statement about zombies. (MAG 122, Zombie.)

February 2 - The episode "Foundations" is released.

February 4 - The episode "A Stern Look" is released.

February 5 - The episode "Civilian Casulties" is released.

February 8 - The episode "Nothing Beside Remains" is released.

February 9 - The episode "High Pressure" is released. / Thomas Neill gives a statement about working in a mosquito lab. (MAG 45, Blood Bag.)

February 10 - Jan Kilbride gives a statement about their time aboard The Daedalus. (MAG 106, A Matter Of Perspective.)

February 11 - The episode "Parting" is released. / Lesere Saraki gives her statement about working a night shift at a hospital. (MAG 12, First Aid.)

February 12 - The last date on Robin Patton's calendar before the dark got them. (MAG 86, Tucked In.)

February 13 - Jon takes a statement from Melanie about a war ghost. (MAG 76, The Smell Of Blood.)

February 14 - The episode "Sculptor's Tool" is released.

February 15 - The episode "Containment" is released.

February 16 - Jurgen Leitner Pipe Murder Day. / The episode "Expectational Risk" is released. / Tim and Martin enter The Distortion's hallway. (MAG 79, Hide And Seek.)

February 18 - The episode "Adrift" is released. / Jon makes a statement about his first Leitner. (MAG 81, A Guest For Mr. Spider.) Martin, Tim, and Elias are interviewed by Daisy. (MAG 82, The Eyewitness.)

February 20 - Robert E. Geiger gives a statement about the dust bowl. (MAG 99, Dust To Dust.)

February 21 - The episode "Remains To Be Seen" is released.

February 22 - The episode "Dead Women Walking" is released. / Vincent Yang gives a statement about being imprisoned in one of Mikaele Salesa's artifacts. (MAG 66, Held In Customs.)

February 23 - The episode "Crusader" is released. / Kieran Woodward gives a statement about weird trash bags found on his route. (MAG 5, Thrown Away.) / Jane Prentiss gives a statement about a wasp nest in her attic. (MAG 32, Hive.)

February 25 - The episode "The Old House" is released.

February 28 - The episode "Heavy Goods" is released.

March 1 - The episode "Absent Without Leave" is released.

March 2 - The episode "Still Life" is released. / Yuri Utkin gives her statement on a strange circus she attended as a child. (MAG 44, Tightrope.) / Benjamin Hatendi gives a statement about a blanket that never did anything. (MAG 86, Tucked In.)

March 3 - Jackson Ellis gives a statement about a sinkhole in his town. (MAG 97, We All Ignore The Pit.) / The surviving half of Breekon and Hope gives his statement. (MAG 128, Heavy Goods.)

March 4 - The episode "Connected" is released.

March 5 - Lester Chang gives a statement about the cleaning habits of his Father in law. (MAG 93, Contaminant.)

March 7 - The episode "Submerged" is released.

March 8 - The episode "Return To Sender" is released.

March 9 - The episode "Pest Control" is released.

March 11 - The episode "Precipice" is released. / Natalie Ennis is reported missing after joining The People's Church Of Divine Host. / Gregory Pryor gives a statement about how his investigative work led him to Jared Hopworth. (MAG 49, The Butcher's Window.)

March 12 - Jon takes a statement from Martin about his run in with Jane Prentiss. (MAG 22, Colony.)

March 13 - Ivo Lensik gives his statement about doing construction on a house on Hill Top Road. (MAG 8, Burned Out,)

March 14 - The episode "Meat" is released. / Antonio Blake makes a statement about prophetic dreams and Oliver Banks makes his first appearance in the series! (MAG 11, Dreamer.) / Alexia Crawley makes her statement about working a spider based film. (MAG 110, Creature Feature.)

March 15 - The episode "Children Of The Night" is released. / The episode "We All Ignore The Pit" is released. / Elias claimed he found Gertrude's desk covered in blood on this date. (MAG 40, Human Remains.)

March 18 - The Magus Archive pre-release trailer "Seed" is released. / The episode "Seeing It Through" is released. / Jack Barnabas gives his statement about his relationship with Agnes Montague.

March 19 - The Magus Archive pre-launch trailer is released.

March 20 - The Magus Archive launch trailer "Launch Trailer" is released. / An eclipse passed over Ny-Ålesund and the ritual of The Dark was attempted. (MAG 143, Heart Of Darkness.) / Gertrude makes a statement for her predecessor. (MAG 161, Dwelling.)

March 21 - The episode "Flesh" is released. / Lionel Elliott and his strange students discuss the heart. (MAG 34, Anatomy Class.)

March 22 - The episode "Light's Out" is released. / Evan Lukas dies of heart failure and sets off the events of "Alone." (MAG 13, Alone.)

March 23 - The episode "Personal Space" is released.

March 24 - The first episode of Magnus Archives, "Anglerfish" is released. / The Magnus Archives Season 5 trailer is released.

March 25 - The episode "Do Not Open" is released. / The last episode of The Magnus Archives "Last Words" is released. / Andrea Nunis gives her statement about traveling alone. (MAG 48, Lost In The Crowd.)

March 27 - The episode "Across The Street." is released.

March 28 - The episode "Entombed" is released.

March 29 - The episode "Dust To Dust" is released.

March 30 - The episode "Page Turner" is released. / The episode "Trail Rations" is released.

March 31 - Naomi Herne is involved in a collision while escaping from The Lonely. (MAG 13, Alone.) / Albrecht von Closen sends a letter to Jonah Magnus about a tomb. (MAG 23, Schwartzwald.) / Erin Gallagher-Nelson gives their statement about an urban exploration trip that cost them their brother in-law. (MAG 63, End Of The Tunnel.)

April 1 - The episode "Thrown Away" is released. / Tim plays an unspecified April Fool's Day Prank on The Archives that leaves Sasha tired. (MAG 26, A Distortion.) / Jeremy W, one of the patients in the anatomy students hospital during the fear apocalypse, is born. (MAG 182, Wellbeing.)

April 2 - Jon takes Sasha's statement about meeting Michael. (MAG 26, A Distortion.) / Barbara Mullen-Jones gives a statement about her nine months in a cult. (MAG 153, Love Bombing.)

April 3 - The episode "Squirm" is released. / The episode "Dwelling" is released. / Sunil Maraj gives a statement about their work as a security guard and their coworker who was too obsessed with the security footage. (MAG 148, Extended Surveillance.)

April 4 - The episode "I Guess You Had To Be There" is released. / The episode "Dead Horse" is released. / Carter Chilcott gives a statement regarding his time spent alone aboard the Daedalus. / Sebastian Skinner has his statement about breaking a ritual circle committed to tape.

April 5 - The episode "Recluse" is released.

April 6 - The episode "The Piper" is released.

April 7 - Graham Folger gets replaced by the Not! Them. (MAG 3, Across The Street.)

April 8 - The episode "Burned Out" is released.

April 9 - The episode "A Cozy Cabin" is released. / Carlos Vittery gives his statement about his severe phobia of spiders. (MAG 16 Arachnophobia.) Philip Brown gives a statement about his time working in the HMP Wakefield prison. (MAG 52, Exceptional Risk.) Barnabas Bennett sends a letter to Jonah Magnus begging him to save him from a temple. (MAG 92, Nothing Beside Remains.)

April 10 - The episode "A Father's Love" is released.

April 11 - The episode "Time Of Revelation" is released.

April 12 - The episode "Observer Effects" is released.

April 13 - The episode "Vampire Killer" is released.

April 15 - The episode "Dreamer" is released. / Yuri Utkin's statement about her trip to a zoo as a child is committed to tape.

April 16 - The episode "In The Trenches" is released.

April 17 - The episode "First Aid" is released. / Melanie King makes her first appearance in the series and gives a statement about exploring an abandoned hospital with Sarah Baldwin. (MAG 28, Skintight.)

April 18 - The episode "Dark Matter" is released.

April 19 - The episode "Hard Shoulder" is released. / Mark Bilham gives a statement about an urban exploring trip that cost her her brother-in-law. (MAG 25, Growing Dark.)

April 20 - The episode "Alone" is released.

April 22 - Nathan Watts gives the first statement in the series about a stranger asking for a cigarette. (MAG 1, Anglerfish.) Anya Villette gives a statement about a cleaning job she did at the house on Hill Top Road. (MAG 114, Cracked Foundation.)

April 23 - The episode "The Sick Village" is released. / Anya Villette does a cleaning job at Hill Top Road and enters a new dimension. (MAG 114, Cracked Foundation.)

April 24 - The episode "Piecemeal" is released. / Jon takes Jude Perry's statement and gets marked by The Desolation. (MAG 89, Twice As Bright.)

April 25 - The episode "The Puppeteer" is released.

April 26 - The episode "First Edition" is released.

April 27 - The episode "Lost John's Cave" is released.

April 29 - Jon takes Georgie's statement about her time in college. (MAG 94, Dead Women Walking.)

April 30 - The episode "Revolutions" is released.

May 1 - The episode "Arachnophobia" is released.

May 2 - The episode "Nemesis" is released. / Lynne Hammond gives her statement about a ghost on fire in her apartment. (MAG 100, I Guess You Had To Be There.) / John Flamsteed kills Joseph Reimer (MAG 140, The Movement Of The Heavens.)

May 3 - The episode "The End Of The Tunnel" is released.

May 4 - The episode "The Boneturner's Tale" is released.

May 7 - The episode "The Worms" is released.

May 9 - The episode "The Architect Of Fear" is released.

May 10 - "The Assistant's Round Table" is posted. / The episode "The Man Upstairs" is released./ The episode "Burial Rites" is released.

May 13 - Judith O’Neill gives a statement about an odd hut they found in a jungle. (MAG 149, Concrete Jungle.)

May 14 - The episode "Curiosity" is released. / Doctor Algernon Moss gives his statement about his run in with the Sandman. (MAG 98, Light's Out.)

May 15 - The episode "Chosen" is released. / Gertrude Robinson dies. / Alfred Breekon makes a statement about Breekon and Hope taking over his delivery company.

May 16 - The episode "Another Twist" is released.

May 17 - The episode "Binary" is released.

May 18 - The episode "Confession" is released.

May 20 - Donna Gwynne makes a statement about an unauthorized archaeological dig. (MAG 64, Burial Rites.) / Robin Lennox gives their statement about walking their dog and leaving The Spiral. (MAG 100, I Guess You Had To Be There.)

May 21 - The episode "Roots" is released.

May 23 - The episode "The Movement Of The Heavens" is released. / The episode "Nesting Instinct" is released.

May 24 - The episode "Held In Customs" is released.

May 25 -The episode "Desecrated Host" is released.

May 26 - Brain Finlinson gives a statement about the spiders in his apartment. (MAG 100, I Guess You Had To Be There.)

May 28 - The episode "Fire Escape" is released.

May 29 - Lee Rentoul makes a statement about his packages and losing body parts. (MAG 14, Piecemeal.)

May 30 - The episode "Cruelty Free" is released. / Father Edwin Burroughs gives a statement about how he went from priest to cannibal. (MAG 19, Confession.) / An incident in with mosquito's in a science lab occurs. (MAG 45, Blood Bag.)

May 31 - The episode "Burning Desires" is released.

June 1 - The episode "Freefall" is released.

June 3 - Joseph Puce find's Simon Fairchild's parachute. (MAG 21, Freefall.) / Joseph Russo gives a statement regarding a book allegedly authored by Sir Frederick Treeves. (MAG 68, The Tale Of The Field Hospital.)

June 4 - The episode "Recollection" is released. / Nathaniel Thorp gives a statement about how he became immortal. (MAG 29, Cheating Death.) Harold Silvana gives a statement about tunnels that were found in an old abandoned mall. (MAG 35, Old Passages.) François Deschamps gives his statement about his coworker being married to a beetle. (MAG 102, Nesting Instinct.)

June 6 - The episode "Sneak Preview" is released. / Andre Ramao gives a statement about his homophobic vase. (MAG 38, Lost And Found.)

June 7 - The episode "Tale Of The Field Hospital" is released.

June 8 - The episode "Colony" is released. / Lydia Halligan gives a statement about her insomnia. (MAG 74, Fatigue.)

June 10 - Sebastian Adekoya gives a statement about weird books and his childhood friend Jared Hopworth. (MAG 17, Boneturner's Tale.)

June 11 - The episode "The Gardener" is released.

June 12 - Sampson Kempthorne gives a statement about the architecture of George Gilbert Scott. (MAG 50, Foundations.) Lawrence Moore gives a statementG about his cousin being replaced. (MAG 78, Distant Cousin.)

June 13 - The episode "Total War" is released.

June 14 - The episode "Thought Of The Day" is released. / Laura Popham and her sister enter Lost John's Cave. (MAG 15, Lost John's Cave.) Danny Stoker goes missing. (MAG 104, Sneak Preview.)

June 15 - The episode "Schwartzwald" is released. / Laura Popham makes her way out of Lost John's Cave. (MAG 15, Lost John's Cave.)

June 17 - A pit opens for the ritual of The Buried. (MAG 97, We All Ignore The Pit.)

June 18 - The episode "Strung Out" is released.

June 20 - The episode "A Matter Of Perspective" is released. / The episode "Doomed Voyage" is released.

June 21 - The episode "Book Of The Dead" is released.

June 23 - Alexander Scaplehorn gives a statement about a taxidermy shop he had to evaluate. (MAG 54, Still Life.)

June 24 - The episode "Strange Music" is released.

June 25 - The episode "Night Night" is released.

June 27 - The episode "Third Degree" is released. / The episode "Scrutiny" is released. / Percy Fawcett gives a statement about losing his son to a hunt ritual. (MAG 133, Dead Horse.)

June 28 - The episode "Underground" is released. / Dominic Swain gives a statement about a strange book that smells like ozone and Gerard Keay is first introduced to the series. (MAG 4, Page-turner.)

June 29 - The episode "Growing Dark" is released. / Jon takes the statement of Trever Herbert and Julia Montauk. (MAG 109, Nightfall.)

June 30 - Gerard Keay makes his statement. (MAG 111, Family Business.)

July 1 - Amy Patel gives a statement about her stalking victim, Graham Folger. (MAG 3, Across The Street.)

July 2 - The episode "The Great Beast" is released. / Dylan Anderson makes a statement about a monster pig in his pen. (MAG 103, Cruelty Free.)

July 3 - Mary Keay makes a statement to Gertrude. (MAG 62, First Edition.) /  Wallis Turner makes a statement about his time in a war camp and a failed Slaughter ritual. (MAG 137, Nemesis.)

July 4 - The episode "Monologue" is released. / The episode "Heart Of Darkness" is released.

July 5 - The man upstairs starts making hammering noises. (MAG 18, The Man Upstairs.)

July 6 - The episode "A Distortion" is released, marking the first appearance in the series of The Distortion! / The episode "Takeaway" is released.

July 8 - Jeremy W, one of the patient's in the anatomy students fear dominion, is born. (MAG 182, Wellbeing.)

July 9 - The episode "Epoch" is released.

July 10 - Trevor Herbert gives his first statement to The Magnus Institute. (MAG 10, Vampire Killer.)

July 11 - The episode "Nightfall" is released. / The episode "Decrypted" is released.

July 12 - The episode "Police Lights" is released. / David Laylow quits the killing floor. (MAG 20, Killing Floor.) Lionel Elliott makes a statement about strange students in his class. (MAG 34, Anatomy Class.) Rosa Meyer gives a statement about feeling watched ever since she went through her brothers things. (MAG 60, Observer Effect.)

July 13 - The episode "A Sturdy Lock" is released.

July 14 - Manuela Dominguez gives a statement about her religious beliefs and time among the Daedalus. (MAG 135, Dark Matter.)

July 15 - Jon reads an ominous and prophetic test statement. (MAG Pre-Launch Trailer.)

July 16 - The episode "Blood Ties" is released.

July 18 - The episode "Creature Feature" is released. / The episode "Infectious Doubts" is released. / Basira and Daisy go out on a Section 31 call about a man who should be dead not being dead in his apartment filled with dice. (MAG 43, Section 31.)

July 19 - The episode "Fatigue" is released. / Sergeant Terrence Simpson gives a statement about an outbreak of violence in Lancraig. (MAG 125, Civilian Casualties.)

July 20 - The episode "Skintight" is released, marking the first appearance in the series of Melanie King! / Anabelle Cane gives a statement about her possible history. (MAG 147, Weaver.)

July 21 - Eric Delano gives his statement from beyond the grave. (MAG 154, Bloody Mary.)

July 23 - The MAG 2019 live show happens.

July 24 - Daisy makes a traffic stop with her partner and loses him to a singing coffin. (MAG 61, Hard Shoulder.)

July 25 - The episode "Family Business" is released. / The episode "Threshold" is released.

July 26 - The episode "A Long Way Down" is released.

July 27 - The episode "Cheating Death" is released.

July 29 - Jane Prentiss attacks The Institute. (MAG 39, Infestation.)

August 1 - The episode "The Smell Of Blood" is released. / The episode "The Thrill Of The Chase" is released. / The episode "Weaver" is released. / Angie Santos gives a statement about their coworker with no backbone. (TMA 123, Web Development.)

August 2 - Jon, Basira, and Melanie make a statement before going to take down the circus. (MAG 117, Testament.)

August 3 - The episode "Killing Floor" is released. / Martin makes a statement before going to take down the circus. (MAG 117, Testament.)

August 4 - Graham Folger’s parents die and leave him with their flat. (MAG 3, Across The Street.) / Tim makes a statement before going to take down the circus. (MAG 117, Testament.) / Jeremy W, one of the patients in the anatomy students hospital during the fear apocalypse, is born. (MAG 182, Wellbeing.)

August 6 - "What The Ghost - The Devil's Dance." is released. / Jason North gives his statement about breaking Gertrude Robinson's ritual circle. (MAG 7, Burnt Offering.)

August 7 - Ross Davenport gives a statement about working out at Jared Hopworth's gym. (MAG 90, Bodybuilder.)

August 8 - The episode "Breathing Room" is released. / The episode "Extended Surveillance" is released. / Alan Parfitt texts his coworker claiming he found the people who left the garbage bag filled with teeth. (MAG 5, Thrown Away.)

August 9 - The episode "The Kind Mother" is released. / Elias uses this date as a fake date in his fake statement about a house fire. (MAG 160, The Eye Opens.)

August 10 - The episode "First Hunt" is released.

August 13 - The episode "Epiphany" is released.

August 14 - Adelard Dekker writes his final letter to Gertrude. (MAG 157, Rotten Core.)

August 15 - The episode "Cracked Foundation" is released. / The episode "Concrete Jungle" is released.

August 16 - The episode "Distant Cousin" is released.

August 17 - The episode "Hive" is released.

August 20 - Alan Parfitt is reported missing by his brother, one of the many "Michael's" in the series. (MAG 5, Thrown Away.) / Adonis Biros gives a statement about preforming on stage. (TMA 108, Monologue)

August 22 - The episode "Taking Stock" is released. / The episode "Cul-de-sac" is released.

August 23 - The episode "Hide And Seek" is released.

August 24 - The episode "Boatswain's Call" is released. / Paul McKenzie gives his statement about his door handle rattling at night. (MAG 27, A Sturdy Lock.)

August 27 - The episode "MAG Bloopers - Totally Real Humans" is released.

August 29 - The episode "The Show Must Go On" is released. / The episode "Big Picture" is released.

August 30 - The episode "Anatomy Class" is released. / The episode "The Liberian" is released.

September 1 - David Laylow gives a statement about his time working in a slaughter house. (MAG 30, Killing Floor.) Marcus McKenzie gives a statement about being followed around by doors. (MAG 146, Threshold.)

September 2 - Jonathan Sims makes a statement about his time exploring the tunnels. (MAG 41, Too Deep.)

September 3 - The episode "Wonderland" is released.

September 4 - The Ivy Meadows Care Home burns down. (MAG 36, Taken Ill.) Kulbir Shakya gives a statement about a flood. (MAG 129, Submerged.)

September 5 - The episode "Testament" is released. / The episode "A Gravedigger's Envy" is released. / Sergeant Walter Heller gives a statement regarding a discovery made near Alexandria. (MAG 53, Crusader.)

September 7 - The episode "Old Passages" is released.

September 10 - The episode "The Processing Line" is released.

September 12 - The episode "The Masquerade" is released. / The episode "Love Bombing" is released.

September 14 - The episode "Taken III" is released.

September 15 - Lucy Cooper makes a statement about a women pretending to be her Mother. (MAG 44, The Kind Mother.)

September 17 - The episode "Accomplice" is released.

September 19 - The episode "Stranger Yet Stranger" is released. / The episode "Bloody Mary" is released. / Jon takes Basira's statement about Section 31. (MAG 43, Section 31.)

September 21 - The episode "Burnt Offering" is released.

September 24 - The episode "Moving On" is released.

September 25 - Peter Lukas dies to Jonathan Sims, and Martin and Jon's presumed anniversary. (MAG 159, The Last.)

September 26 - The episode "Eye Contact" is released. / The episode "The Cost Of Living" is released.

September 27 - "The Magnus Archives Season 2 Q And A" is released.

September 28 - The episode "Lost And Found" is released.

October 1 - The episode "Ignorance" is released.

October 2 - Jon takes a statement from Helen Richardson about a new door. (MAG 47, The New Door.)

October 3 - The episode "Reflection" is released. / Gary Boylan gives a statement about strange numbers coming through his MP3 player. (MAG 144, Decrypted.)

October 4 - The second part of the season 2 Q and A is released. / Gertrude commits the statement of Abraham Janssen about a failed stranger ritual to tape. (MAG 116, The Show Must Go On.)

October 5 - The episode "Infestation" is released.

October 8 - The episode "Wellbeing" is released.

October 9 - Martin almost makes a statement about this date before being interrupted by Tim. (MAG 104 Sneak Preview.) / Gertrude commits the statement of Wallis Turner about a war camp to tape. (MAG 137, Nemesis.)

October 10 - The episode "Rotten Core" is released. / Sebastian Skinner makes a statement about being an unobservant repair man. (MAG 87, The Uncanny Valley.)

October 11 - Debra Madaki makes a statement about a spiral avatar in her art class. (MAG 126, Sculptor's Tool.)

October 12 - The episode "Human Remains" is released.

October 15 - The episode "Monument" is released.

October 17 - The episode "Panopticon" is released.

October 19 - Chloe Ashburt gives a statement about the window displays at her job being messed with. (MAG 83, Drawing A Blank.)

October 20 - Moira Kelly makes a statement about her son being eaten by the sky. / Craig Goodall gives a statement about a closed down kebab shop. (MAG 72, Takeaway.)

October 22 - Toby Carlisle's meat apartment is found. (MAG 18, The Man Upstairs.)

October 24 - The episode "The Last" is released. / The episode "Like Ants" is released. / Rosa Meyer attempts and fails to bring a van full of petrol to The Magnus Institute.

October 26 - The MAG Season 1 Q and A is posted.

October 31 - The episode "The Eye Opens" is released. / The Season 3 trailer is released.

November 1 - The Season 3 Q and A is released. / Robert Montauk dies in prison and sets off Juliet's Montauk character arc. (MAG 9, A Father's Love.)

November 2 - Luca Moretti gives a statement about returning home from war. (MAG 95, Absent Without Leave.) / Abraham Janssen gives a statement about witnessing a failed Stranger ritual. (MAG 116, The Show Must Go On.)

November 3 - Jennifer Ling gives a statement about a killer band. (MAG 42, Grifters Bone.) / Jordan Kennedy makes a statement about a wasp nest he tried to exterminate from an attic. (MAG 55, Pest Control.)

November 4 - Gertrude commits the statement made by Lucy Cooper to tape. (MAG 77, The Kind Mother.) Enrique MacMillan gives a statement on his passion for digging. (MAG 88, Dig.)

November 5 - The episode "Locked In" is released. / The episode "Quiet" is released. / Sergeant Walter Heller makes a discovery made near Alexandria. (MAG 53, Crusader.)

November 6 - Staff Sergeant Clarence Berry makes a statement about poet Wilfred Owen. (MAG 7, The Piper.)

November 7 - Stephen Walker gives a statement about his brother going missing on top of a skyscraper. (MAG 75, A Long Way Down.)

November 9 - "The Making Of Magnus" is released. / Laura Popham gives a statement about cave diving with her sister, Alena. (MAG 15, Lost John's Cave.) Herman Gorgoli gives a statement about being getting lost in a cul-se-sac. (MAG 150, Cul-de-Sac.)

November 10 - Dominic Swain, the statement giver in "Pageturner," finds a Leitner that reminds him of his childhood friend being struck by lighting. (MAG 4, Pageturner.) / An unnamed women writes a letter about a disastrous attempt to travel the Oregon Trail. (MAG 58, Trail Rations.)

November 12 - The episode "Checking Out" is released.

November 13 - Lisa Carmel gives her statement regarding her murder club. (MAG 112, Thrill Of The Chase.)

November 17 - The Season 2 trailer for The Magnus Archives is released. / The foundation stone of the original Church of Saint James in West Hackney is laid by Robert Smirke.

November 18 - Darren Harlow makes a statement about a fear experiment Anabelle Cane took part in. (MAG 69, Thought For The Day.)

November 19 - The episode "Center Of Attention" is released. / Nicole Baxter gives her statement about picking up bodies from Ivy Meadows Car Home. (MAG 36, Taken Ill.) / Jon overhears Tim and Martin talking about how unstable he is. (MAG 58, Trail Rations.)

November 20 - Timothy Hodge burns down his flat after going to bed with a girl infected by The Corruption. (MAG 7, Squirm)

November 21 - Dr. Jonathan Fanshawe writes a letter to Jonah Magnus about the autopsy of Albrecht von Closen. (MAG 137, Remains To Be Seen.)

November 22 - Joshua Gillespie gives a statement about a coffin that was in his apartment. (MAG 2, Do Not Open.)

November 23 - The episode "A Guest For Mr. Spider" is released. / Jack and Agnes go on their final date. (MAG 67, Burning Desire.)

November 26 - The episode "Peers" is released.

November 27 - Renee T, one of the patients in the anatomy students hospital during the fear apocalypse, is born. (MAG 182, Wellbeing.)

November 28 - The first part of the Season 4 Q and A is released.

November 29 - Ronald Sinclair gives a statement about his time spent in a halfway house at Hilltop Road. (MAG 59, Recluse.)

November 30 - The episode "The Eye Witness" is released. / Eugene Vanderstock gives a statement about taking care of Agnes Montague. (MAG 139, Chosen.)

December 1 - The episode "Too Deep" is released. / Jon takes a statement from Daisy about a delivery van. (MAG 61, Hard Shoulder.) Adrian Weiss gives a statement about an old women's dump. (MAG 84, Possessive.) Alison Killala gives a statement about her time as a caregiver of Neil Lagorio. (MAG 136, The Puppeteer.)

December 3 - "The MAG Cast Retrospective" is released. / Julia Montauk makes her first appearance in the series and gives a statement about her childhood. (MAG 9, A Father's Love.) Tova McHugh gives a statement about near death experiences. (MAG 155, The Cost Of Living.)

December 7 - The episode "Drawing A Blank" is released.

December 8 - The episode "Grifter's Bone" is released.

December 9 - Timothy Hodge gives a statement about an "encounter" he had with a women full of worms. (MAG 6, Squirm.) / Lawrence Mortimer makes a statement about a hunting trip in America that went wrong. (MAG 31, First Hunt.) Masato Murray gives a statement about a book they inherited that predicts their death. (MAG 70, Book Of The Dead.)

December 11 - Julian Jennings gives a statement about a cable car trip that went wrong. (MAG 124, Left Hanging.)

December 12 - Christof Rudenko gives a statement about his upstairs neighbor. (MAG 18, The Man Upstairs.)

December 14 - The episode "Possessive" is released.

December 15 - The episode "Section 31" is released.

December 17 - Nicholas Lekman goes missing after entering a dirty train. (MAG 72, Underground.)

December 19 - Lucia Wright makes a statement about a pit full of meat. (MAG 130, Meat.)

December 21 - The episode "Upon The Stair" is released. / Herbert Knox gives a statement about Michael Crew frequenting his bookstore. (MAG 46, Literary Heights.)

December 22 - The episode "Tightrope" is released.

December 23 - Gerard Keay is admitted to the hospital for burn wounds. (MAG 12, First Aid.)

December 28 - The episode "Tucked In" is released.

December 29 - The episode "Blood Bag" is released.

December 31 - "MAG Commentary - Retrospective #2" is released.