#and they were like 'its only for 6 months'

[dancing-dawn]

Seeing this artwork just makes my brain run wild. I agree with absolutely everything @thedarkdisgrace and if I may add my 2 cents:

My first immediate thought was about the string wrapped multiple times around Dazai's arm and its connection to Akutagawa symbolizing how much power Dazai holds over him and that being a perfect representation of their hierarchy. A gentle effortless tug of his wrist is enough to bring Akutagawa like a dog to him. But Aku holds close to zero meaning or power over Dazai, he can't win in this tug of war and he can't bring him closer by his own will.

Another similar read on the ribbon around Atsushi's throat is how Akutagawa and Kyoka are equally tied to him and the simple act of them pulling away from him, literally and metaphorically, would result in his death. It's fascinating how much this works in the literal sense, too, because Atsushi is most scared of being alone. His ties to people are what keep him alive, yet they're also his biggest weakness, leaving him powerless to the world if left alone (as being made very painfully obvious by the recent developments, good foreshadowing good good).

Atsushi's blind and foolishly naive trust in all the people in his live is both his meaning for life and will be his eventual demise.

His drive and reason to keep living is saving people. He saved Kyoka even when everyone else deemed it impossible. He believes he's able to save Aku too, hence the 6-month promise. He trusted both of them to change, to stop killing, and kept supporting them all the way through. And that alone is enough to give him meaning. If they were to cut their ties with him, he might as well be dead.

And we may also notice Atsushi is the only one who doesn't have thread around his hand, in a sense portraying him as not willing to have power over the others, he's simply letting himself be lead by their hands, being pulled left and right wherever they go because what is he without them.

And coming back to my first point, it's interesting Aku may still be pulled by Dazai's hand, but the string is not on his neck. Dazai is not able to destroy him anymore. Aku's infamous obsession with Dazai's approval may have been what gave meaning to his life, but the lack of it isn't enough to kill him.

Sooo in short my takeaway: lot string around hand = big power/influence; string around neck = vulnerability (which now that I write it down in simple terms seems too obvious lol apologies for the word vomit, it was so much fun to write tho!)

Thread from my twitter about this official art because it’s one of my favorite official anime art. This is actually part 1 because alot of people wanted a soukoku specific/Dazai focused part. So will post that here as well.

Starting off:

They’re gorgeous here but what I really love is the detail of the red thread of fate. More specifically how & where the thread is wrapped for skk & sskk + Kyoka. I’ll start with skk.

When it comes to Soukoku, my loves, Dazai has the thread wrapped around his neck. Chuuya has one end & it’s wrapped around his wrist (the one with the scar that proves he’s human btw), that seems to symbolize he's holding Dazai's life in his hands, at least partially. That's no surprise we all know they're inexplicably linked and fated etc.

Chuuya is always there to save Dazai & Asagiri said he’s the only one who truly understands Dazai. But it's super interesting the other half of Dazai's string that’s wrapped around his neck is first wrapped around his own wrist, before continuing to Aku. This essentially saying Dazai holds his own life in his hands.

Which obviously seems super accurate since we know his is biggest enemy is often his own mind & the hole inside his chest that he has a hard time filling. It’s where his suicidal tendencies come from. But essentially, it seems like Dazai's life is held only by Chuuya & then himself and I love that detail.

This is in contrast to Atsushi, Akutagawa, & Kyoka. The thread is wrapped around Atsushi's throat & Aku & Kyoka both have it around their wrists. Essentially symbolizing *both* Aku & Kyoka have Atsushi’s life in their hands. This seems to showcase both of their importances in Atsushi’s life.

Also other than dead apple, given recent events with Kyoka saving Atsushi in the beginning of the DOA arc & Akutagawa's sacrifice for him later, that red thread being held by them continues making sense.

Also Aku's sacrifice was massive for his development & I hope it is our universes Aku at the end of episode 11 so we can continue exploring that development for himself & his relationship with Atsushi.

The red thread itself is typically to symbolizes those who are destined to be together, regardless of place or time. Which naturally makes sense for soukoku & their “two bodies one soul” situation lol It’s interesting that Atsushi has both Aku & Kyoka linked to him in this sense.

That’s just my take on the art & why it’s one of my favorites.

[wardenparker]

The Unbearable Weight of Perfection, ch 1

Javi Gutierrez x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When an accident of fate throws Javi G into the path of his soulmate, his instinct is to dive in head first. Adjusting to life as the fated partner of someone you barely know is going to be harder than either of you suspect, but anything worth having is worth working for. Isn't it?

(This story is heavily inspired by the lovely house museums that I work in every day and the fantastic few months that HBO was using our houses to film a TV show in fall! I spent each day on that set in wonder and I can't wait to share the experience with all of you through this story.)

Rating: M for Mature but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 7.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this story include: Cursing, alcohol, food, references to abusive family members -- i.e. Lucas.* Fluff, sweetness, flirting, crushes, reader's meddling bestie. Summary: Waking up beside your soulmate the morning after your wedding, you reflect on the meetings that brought you here. Notes: Welcome to a new story, friends! We're using date stamps as we tell this story, as scenes may appear out of chronological order. Enjoy!

Saturday, April 6, 2024

Normally waking up is hard for Javi. Too used to having his own schedule, late nights and lazy mornings. Things have changed over the past few years, the loss of his family fortune and business. Not that he minded no longer being the face of an arms dealer family, even if he wasn’t the one selling the weapons. That was his now incarcerated cousin, Lucas’s doing.

No, now waking up meant an alarm instead of the fragrant smell coffee being brought by a servant, he had to get up and make it himself if he wants.

This morning, this morning his eyes are open before the sun even thinks about peeking over the horizon. The early morning lighting up gradually as he watches your face, so peaceful in sleep. His soulmate. His wife.

Sunrise isn't normally your wakeup call. The mornings are always an early start for you because you like to get as much out of your day as you possibly can. It's been so many years of it now that you even wake up early on the weekends – but not today.

A rare morning of sleeping in means that the bright sun streaming through the windows penetrates your sleep to warm your dreams and drift you closer to reality. Although really, the thing that wakes you is the shifting of the mattress. The last time you shared a bed with anyone before last night was...a year ago? More?

But when you open your eyes, knowing it's your soulmate next to you is so exhilarating.

“Good morning.” Javi’s smile is bright, radiant like the sun as he reaches out and caresses your cheek. “How did you sleep? I think I only slept for two hours but it was the best two hours of my life.”

"Good morning." Like a magnet, you slide towards him on the mattress to tuck yourself into his side. "It's a whole new day. What did you want to do with it?" Neither of you have to work, so it's just...going to be beautiful all on its own.

“I should treat you today, no?” He asks with a grin. “It is technically our honeymoon?” The ring on your finger is just barely ten hours old, the excitement of that fact still humming through his system and coming off as nervous energy.

"We've got a whole weekend to do whatever we want." Honeymoon. It's your honeymoon. The last twenty-four hours have been a complete whirlwind. This time yesterday you were already at work. "I feel silly asking but...what do you like to do for fun?"

“Watching movies.” Javi admits shamelessly, although he no longer has the movie theatre he once did. “What is your favorite movie?”

"Oh gosh, that's such a hard question." Shamelessly happy that you can do so, you lay a kiss on his shoulder and gaze up at him.

Your soulmate is so fucking handsome. How did you get so lucky?

"Maybe..." You laugh at how ridiculously hard it is to choose. "I think I have more like a top three. And they rotate depending on what kind of mood I'm in. But one of the top three is always The Princess Bride."

“That is a good one.” He grins, happy that you seem to light up and have a hard time choosing. “I always liked Wesley.” He admits shamelessly and winks at you. “As you wish.”

"Hush." Even though you nudge him a little, your warm cheeks have nothing to do with the morning sun. It's all mixed in with the dreamy expression on your face as you talk with him. Your husband. Your soulmate. "What's your favourite movie?"

“You must promise not to laugh.” He tells you seriously, although there is humor twinkling in the depths of his dark eyes as he gazes into your hauntingly beautiful ones. “Paddington 2.” He admits, his tone flat and honest.

“Why would I laugh? That’s such a sweet movie!” Daring to reach up to brush a curl out of his eyes, you end up smiling all over again. “I…actually really love watching kids’ movies. They’re great for comfort and cheering me up when I don’t feel too good.”

“They teach us lessons we could all use.” He agrees, capturing your hand and kissing the back of it. “We can watch them together. Snuggled up.”

“That sounds perfect.” Practically everything he suggests sounds perfect, and it’s not just the gorgeous purr of his accent. “It can be a sweet way of unwinding at night.”

“You would not mind?” He asks, brows raised and a hopefully look on his face. “I wish I had my old movie theatre, but we can turn the second bedroom into a viewing room?”

"You..." Confusion makes your eyebrows draw in. "Used to have your own movie theater?"

He tilts his head. “Of course.” He nods. “I will have to build one again. It will not be as big as the one in Spain, but the house will be much smaller too.” He sighs softly, feeling a little bit like a failure for not being able to give you the things he once had. Before he ever knew you carried his marks. “But maybe one day, no?”

"If it will make you happy, then we will absolutely do that." There are plenty of things that you don't know about each other yet, but you have every confidence that you'll be able to settle into things together well. You're soulmates, after all. You're meant to be together. "I just...I've never known anyone who had their own movie theater before. That sounds so fancy."

“It was a large house.” He admits, frowning slightly. He loved the house, hated the bad memories of some of the things that happened there. Although it was never all bad. “You know, Nic Cage came to my birthday party there?” He asks. “It’s how we met.”

"Is it really?" He had told you that they were friends -- hell, the Cages had come to your wedding last night -- but it was still something that you were wrapping your head around.

“Yes.” He chuckles. “I paid him one million dollars to come to my birthday, and somehow, we became friends.”

Your eyes widen, catching on a breath of disbelief. "So that's how you get a movie star to come to your birthday? Color me impressed."

He hums. “Back then, yes.” He admits, leaning in and kissing your shoulder gently. “Now, they are starting to want to come on their own. Not because I pay them.” He doesn’t have the money to do that anymore.

"You're an amazing writer. I'm sure you're just at the start of something really grand." The two movies he has had made so far have both been fantastic. You went home and watched them back-to-back after the first time he told you he was a screenwriter. "I consider myself very lucky that I'll get to be beside you during all of it."

“Really?” His eyes widen, as if he had never really considered that you would be happy to have him as your soulmate. “You want to be beside me?”

It almost makes you laugh, but the wonder on his face is so genuinely sweet that it sort of comes out as a sound of disbelief. "Of course," you promise him, and take his hand to hold both his and your left hands in his view. The hands bearing your brand new wedding rings. "That's what this means."

“Married.” The word is whispered, almost reverently, as if he is still in disbelief that it was ever possible. For him, it had started to look that way. He had loved Gabriella and had been determined to be a good partner no matter if they had not shared marks, but she had left him. He had floundered slightly, bemoaning love and at the encouragement of Nic to start working on his next screen play, he had stumbled upon the soulmate he had always yearned for.

******

Tuesday, February 14, 2023 Valentine's Day

The slowest pay of the week for the museum seems punctuated with particularly melancholy moments today. There was a private tour this morning with a proposal, and the squealing bride-and-groom-to-be had been allowed to take photos together on the grand staircase before regular visitors began arriving for the day. Their family and friends had been hiding in the house, waiting for the moment, all ready to burst out and shout with joy after the question was asked and answered. It had left you with a migraine.

Another lover had popped their question to her beloved out in the gardens while you were trying to get some fresh air on your short morning break. You'd fled back to the breakroom and hung your head in your hands for the rest of your fifteen minutes of quiet.

Now, in the middle of the afternoon, there are so many couples on dates strolling through the halls of Hazelwood House that it felt like an intentional taunt. Being fresh off a breakup at Valentine's Day is no one's idea of a good time. So you just pace your area, walking through the three rooms of the house museum that are under your care for this hour, and hope that the floor just opens up to swallow you whole.

Which is how you accidentally walked straight into a guest.

"Oh! Excuse me! I'm so sorry, that was entirely my fault."

Javi Gutierrez manages to keep himself from stumbling but immediately reaches out to steady you. “No, no, I was wandering around.” He shakes his head, ready to take the blame himself as his eyes meet yours and he swears that his heart skips a beat. He straightens slightly, still holding your arms. “Are you okay?” He asks softly, as if you had been injured by the minor collision.

"I'm totally fine." Shaken, sure, but only because of your own clumsiness and the fact that you just had to bump into the hottest guy you've ever seen in your entire life. "I—I'm sorry." Come on, get it together. "I was distracted." Lie, for fuck's sake. "I just noticed a little detail in the flooring that I had never seen before."

“The floor?” Javi frowns as he looks down at the intricate tiles beneath both of your feet. “What about the floor?” He asks curiously, wondering if it is something special.

"Well..." It's nerdy. It's so nerdy. But there actually is something special about the mosaic tile in this particular room of the house. "The billiard room is covered in mosaic, but I've never paid much attention to the grain of the marble before." An utter lie, you stare at it every day. "Do you see the swirls of blue and gray here? It's the same marble as the fireplace."

Instead of looking at you like you are crazy, Javi squats down and brushes his fingers over the glazed tiles, staring at the colorful patterns for a long moment, memorizing them. Then he lifts his head to stare at the fireplace. “So they tiled the mosaic with marble instead of regular tiles?” He asks, trying to follow.

"It looks like it." He gets excited easily, this incredibly handsome man, and it relaxes you a little. Guests who get excited about little details are one of the things you love most about working in a museum. "Now I'm thinking about taking a photo of the different colors and comparing them to the other fireplaces in the house."

“Can you backtrack through the house?” He looks around worried for a moment and then back at you. “The guides won’t get mad?”

"You're only a few rooms in, I can walk you back to the first fireplace if you'd like?" That would be the breakfast room, which is an easy stroll backward from where you are now and you point it out to him on the map that is printed on the packet of information in his hand. It seems he opted not to download the audio tour as so many do.

He tilts his head, contemplating it seriously. “Then we should do it, no?” He asks. “See if it matches? It should, or no? Maybe it depends on the style of the room?”

"Let's find out, if you're curious. We can check the three fireplaces in this section of the house and you can compare the pictures you take here to the others as you keep moving through the house." You would walk with him, guide him yourself, because it's just so nice to stumble upon someone nice and not on a date today...but abandoning your area of the house would get you in a hell of a lot of trouble.

“Okay.” He smiles at you and wonders if you are waiting for your partner to arrive. It’s Valentine’s Day after all and he had thought to distract himself with work. “The house is very, um, nice.” He says as you start to steer him back towards the other rooms. Small talk can be awkward and he’s not as good as it as he would like at times. Nervous about making a negative impression.

"The whole place is gorgeous." The grounds are a popular tourist attraction, with plenty of weddings and other parties happening on the grounds in addition to the mansion being a museum. "Have you ever visited Hazelwood Park before?"

“This is my first time.” Javi confesses. “I have heard of it, but woke up this morning and decided today was the day.” He had honestly figured there wouldn’t be a lot of couples here. He had been wrong.

"Well, welcome." Back in the breakfast room, you turn to face the soft green marble fireplace. "This does look like the same green of the turtle in the mosaic," you admit. The shades are remarkably similar.

“So they matched the edging of this floor to the fireplace.” The entire floor isn’t a mosaic, but the banding around the edges is. “This fireplace is larger.” He tilts his head. “Perhaps they did not have enough of the leftovers to use, hm?”

"If they only used the pieces that were considered scrap during the carving of the fireplaces, then it would make sense that they wouldn’t have any large pieces." The thin tile line around the otherwise parquet flooring has always charmed you unexpectedly. You had never seen anything like it before.

“It is a good way to use up all the materials.” He agrees. “Because I’m assuming the marble was imported?” It’s nothing he’s ever considered before but your enthusiasm for the details excites him.

"Oh yes, absolutely." In fact, you had had to memorize where all of it came from as part of your knowledge test to be a full-fledged docent. "This particular stone comes from Italy."

“You know a lot about this.” He smiles. “Is the house a favorite place to visit for you?”

"Oh!" You break out into a nervous laugh and realize that this entire time, the nametag and lapel pin that you wear on your cardigan marking you as an employee haven't been visible. "No, I--I work here. I've been here about a year now."

“Oh…oh I am sorry.” He bites his lip as he tries to hide the embarrassed grin. “I didn’t realize. I thought you were just an enthusiast.”

"Being an enthusiast is sort of how I got the job," you admit. Shrugging your shoulders, you straighten out your cardigan again and do up one button to make sure both pins stay visible. "It turns out that I really love it. Beyond just thinking the place is beautiful."

“That explains your comment about this section of the house.” He chuckles, wiping his hands on his pants and shoving them in his pockets. “I had assumed you were waiting on someone. Now I know that’s it’s other tour groups.

"Have to stay in my section." A light, awkward laugh travels between you but even that little sound from him sounds angelic. "But if you like these first few rooms, then you'll love the rest of the house."

“Which is your favorite room?” He asks, looking down at his map.

"Today?" You laugh a little, emboldened by the way he seems to smile with his whole face. Like he really doesn't mind talking to you. Like he might even enjoy it. "I love them all, but I think the library might be the best part of the whole house."

“Do you like to read?” He asks, charmed by your laugh and the way you seem to light up at the question. As if you aren’t normally asked a personal question. “The library was always where I was chided, but then it was also where I could escape into different worlds when I couldn’t do other things.”

"That's the beauty of books." Something you believe unabashedly. Stories are an escape -- whether that is books or movies or plays, or whatever else. "Being able to run away into a different world is powerful. It's freeing." Warmth creeps up your neck and into your cheeks and you nearly feel embarrassed for getting so excited about it except that he's still smiling. "The library in this house? I would curl up in front of that fireplace with a stack of books beside me on the chaise lounge and one of those little table all covered in the blue China from the butler's pantry and a whole plate of scones. I would just stay there all day and night."

“That sounds perfect.” He hums. “With the fire built up?”

“Oh, of course.” The scenario has played out in your head a thousand times, and one day you might just have to go antiquing for your own chaise so you can fulfill it. Of course…you’ll also need a home legitimate enough to have a fireplace. Not your shitty little studio apartment.

“Storm beating against the windows?” It would be a miracle in California, but he could imagine it in the setting of his latest screenplay. “Or snow?”

"Oh, it's been years since I saw a good snowstorm. I used to hate them, but I sort of miss it."

“I have not ever lived somewhere where there was snow.” He admits with a small shrug. “It is beautiful in pictures but I do not think it would be fun to have every day.”

"Oh, it's definitely not." Not even a little, and your immediate answer elicits laughs from both of you. "My favorite was when I was going to college in Boston and the college dug out our sidewalks for us. All the beauty of snow with none of the work."

“That is probably the best way to have the snow.” He admits with a laugh.

"Well..." Realizing you've probably monopolized enough of this extremely handsome, extremely charming man's time, you offer him a smile and try to smother the butterflies accumulating in the pit of your stomach. He has the most beautiful, soulful eyes you've ever seen. "Enjoy the rest of the museum. Take an extra look at the library when you pass through the south wing and you'll see what I mean about it being comfy."

He’s entirely disappointed to realize that he’s being dismissed. Enjoying the way you banter with him, he wishes he could ask you to give him the tour of the entire house so he could continue talking. Feeling more at ease with you than he has with anyone ever. “Thank you.” He hums softly. “I hope you have a wonderful day, full of beauty.”

"You too." You flounder for a few seconds, but you know you'll get in trouble if your supervisor sees you on the surveillance cameras talking to the same guest for too long, so you gently extract yourself to stroll as casually as possible back into the corner of the great hall that is included in your area of the house right now.

Javi watches you walk off and he sighs before he looks down at the map and pulls out his phone to take pictures of the rooms. Your attention to detail will have to be included in the film.

******

Saturday, December 23, 2023

It's the Christmas season the next time you see him, when the house is all done up in twinkling lights and wreaths with trimmed trees in almost every room. Bowls of chestnuts and pine cones and cherries replace the usual decorative hazelnuts and oranges. Pine boughs and poinsettias instead of big, beautiful flower arrangements. It's a nice change of pace, honestly, and on the weekends guests can buy tickets to the after-hours light display on the grounds. Out in the garden there are even refreshments and music plays from the trees that drip with even more lights.

Javier tucks into his light jacket. It’s not completely necessary, but it helps the spirit of the season. The lights are beautiful and he’s heard that the decorations are truly a sight to see.

The music outside just reminds you of the years that you worked in retail -- repetitive and sickly sweet Christmas songs pouring through speakers, but you dole out cups of cocoa and coffee at one of the refreshment tables outside with good enough spirits. There's bits of broken cookie to sneak every now and then, and the little gingerbread men are tasty morsels when you and the other docent working at the table can grab them.

“You were right about the library.” He hadn’t been looking for you. At least that’s what he tells himself, although he lights up for some reason when he recognizes you. “It’s perfect for a cozy day reading.”

"You..." It takes all you've got not to grab your friend's hand beside you, as the specter of the random guest you've had a crush on for almost a year materializes in front of you. "You remembered?" The full sentence is 'You remembered me?' but you don't say that.

He grins bashfully as he steps up to the table and looks down at the cookies and paper cups, trying to keep from staring at how pretty you are. Javi’s been around gorgeous women, but there’s something about the naked honest in your eyes that makes him feel almost feverish. “Of course I did.” He chuckles. “I went back through to find you that day, but you must have already gone home.”

“We move around the house every hour. To keep on our toes and so we don’t stare at the same set of walls the whole day.” Did he get even more attractive since last time? That would be so unfair. Criminally unfair, actually. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Enough to come back, even.”

“I had to see it during Christmas.” It also got him out of the tiny cottage he lives in. Around other people. Hopefully to distract from the loneliness of the holiday. “I don’t know if this might not be the best look for this place. Although I see it with candles lit all around.”

“It’s perfect in spring,” you tell him all too quickly, and end up flustering yourself so you have to tear your eyes away from his to look down at the grounds gather your damn wits back. “I mean…in early spring is when all the orange and hazelnut trees blossom. That’s how the property got its name. Hazelwood Park.”

“Is that so? I will have to check it out.” He looks suitably impressed and then motions to the table. “So, um, how much for a cookie and a cup of coffee?” He asks, not sure what else to say, but wanting to continue the conversation.

"Oh, they're free for guests. Help yourself." Your coworker offers helpfully, seeing you fluster and thoroughly enjoying the level of teasing that is going to happen after work tonight. "Why don't you take your break while we have a lull?" She suggests, practically batting her eyelashes with glee over the suggestion.

"Thanks, Moira," you hum with a tone that suggests you're going to kill her later. Then again? She has a point. These days that there are special events at work can be long. You've been on your feet for hours.

Javi is disappointed, sure that you will disappear on him since you have a chance to get off your feet and possibly get something to eat or drink yourself. “Oh, um, okay.” He takes a cup of be coffee and a cookie. “Thanks.”

"Make sure to show him your bench!" Moira suggests, far too loudly and excitedly to not be obvious, as she thrusts a cup of cocoa and a gingerbread man into your hands.

“Your bench?” He could kiss your friend for giving him something to grasp on to in order to keep the conversation going. “What is your bench?”

"It's...it's over on the west side of the property." You gesture to the left of were you're both standing and try to suppress the giddy and awkward shivers running up and down your spine. "Do you...would you want to walk?"

“Are you sure you want to?” He asks seriously, happy about spending time with you but it’s your break. “You don’t want to rest?”

"Benches are made for resting." Now that the chance has presented itself, you would actually be pretty bummed to miss out on the chance to chat with him again. And, in all honesty, you're pretty sure it's not your break at all. Moira just threw you out of the nest like a mama bird.

“Okay.” He agree to that easily and shifts to move the cookie into the same hand as his coffee to offer you his arm. “Lead the way.”

The chivalrous gesture damn near makes your knees buckle, and you follow suit. Shifting your snack into one hand lets you take his arm to lead him toward the ocean. "It's just...where I like to come sit." Of course it is. You groan at yourself internally. What else would you do at a bench but sit? "I take my lunch out here sometimes and things like that."

“So it’s your special place.” He likes the sound of that. Showing him something that you might not show every guest.

"I suppose you could say that." It's only a touch chilly tonight and the breeze coming off the ocean is welcoming. "It's a nice place to sit and think. To just watch the ocean and...dream."

“Hopefully the dreams are nice ones.” He offers, wondering what you might dream about. “Having a quiet place to think is always a good thing. I used to sit out at the cliffs and dream, plot, plan.”

"Cliffs?" Hazelwood Park is more or less on a cliffside, and you motion out toward the ocean again. "Like this one?"

“A little larger than this one.” He smiles as he thinks back to jumping off the cliff with Nic. “Mallorca has cliffs that go hundreds of meters in the air.” He tells you. “Some so steep you would be terrified to slip off the edge.”

“Mallorca?” Spanish. Damn. They really do make hotter men in Europe. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful there. You…traded one beautiful place to live for another?”

He shrugs slightly. “Hard to write movies anywhere else but Hollywood, no?”

“Hard, but not impossible.”

So there it is. Even the screenwriters in Hollywood are sexy. Maybe you should be grateful to live so close by, then? Southern California does have some fun things that back home didn’t. Rather than fawn over him — that’s never been your style — you just smile. “So you like libraries and you’re a writer. Stories run through your veins.”

“I would live in them if I could.” He admits wistfully. The little bench is drawing closer and he can see from the view from this point why you would like it. It’s a stunning place to look out over the water. The wind just a touch brisk as it ruffles his hair. The smell of the saltwater taking over.

“Me too.” And for reasons you can’t quite discern, you just keep talking. “That’s why I like history so much. It’s all just stories. Especially in big houses like this. Somebody’s whole life — their whole story — is wrapped up in that house.”

“And do you sometimes pretend you are the lady of the house?” He asks, imagining you in the skirts from that time.

"It would be sort of a shame to dream about the place and not dream the grand, elegant things. Wouldn't it?" When you reach the bench together, he seems to set you down first, letting you settle, and then sits beside you. "I think it's romantic. Curtis Hollingsworth built the place as a birthday gift for his wife. They were outgrowing their home because they were pregnant again, and he'd made millions helping to turn Santa Barbara into a spa town." The soft smile on your face is whimsical, but you can't help it. "Apparently, she loved oranges and hazelnuts. Which is why the trees are everywhere."

“He brought those to her.” He looks out over the water and takes a sip of the rich coffee. At least they had served a strong brew instead of something heartbreakingly weak. “To build a house for someone you love is a perfect way to show it.” He frowns slightly, remembering that he has a building site that was halted before the foundation was ever poured.

“It’s certainly a grand gesture.” Something in his tone and manner makes you hesitate, but you don’t know this man nearly well enough to ask a single personal question so you try to just press past it. “Of course, grand gestures aren’t the only way of showing love. Not by any means. But they do make wonderful stories.”

“Sometimes it’s just listening.” He agrees, thinking about how things between him and Gabriella had turned after moving to L.A. two years ago. She had been uninterested in the future he envisions and started working towards. Stopped talking to him about anything that wasn’t part of her own interests. He had tried to course correct, but it had ultimately not meant to be.

“I couldn’t agree more.” This time you do chance to look at him — sharp jaw and soft cheeks outlined against the night sky like a fully grown cherub, golden brown curls neatly and artfully tousled and waving in the breeze. He looks like a Romantic painting. “Lots of people talk about communication but not enough realize listening is included in that.”

His eyes find yours again, seeing the softness and understanding swimming in their depths and he feels like bearing his soul to you. “Is it probably the most important part.” He admits. “The world would be better if people understood that.”

“Again…” you swallow hard, feeling your mouth has run dry and chest fairly ripped open with the feeling of familiarity. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The silence falls between you. It’s not unpleasant, it’s almost hesitant. As if both of you are afraid of disturbing the uncluttered beauty of the moment as the waves crash against the coast at the wind batters playfully against your cheeks. Javi breaks off a piece of the cookie and dips it onto the coffee.

“You chose a beautiful night to come visit.” It’s clear and typically warm despite the ocean breeze, and even in the end of December, Southern California is a beautiful place to be. He could have gone to any of a thousand places but he chose to come here, and a small voice in the back of your head wonders — hopes — that maybe you had a part in making this place happy for him.

“I was compelled to come back.” He admits softly, looking over at you for a moment before breaking off the gaze to look out at the sea again.

“The house is like that.” When he looks away, you do too. “It draws people in.”

It’s not the house, but it would sound crazy to say that he wanted to see you again. Instead he hums. “I don’t think it’s just the house.”

“Well…” If you wanted to take that to heart, you feel like you could. It wouldn’t be difficult to give yourself that little bit of hope. But despite being easy, it would probably be very foolish. “I hope it helps you miss home a little less to sit on these cliffs, instead.”

“I think it does.” He takes the bite of the cookie and groans happily. “These are good.”

“Gingerbread is highly underrated,” you agree, and take a bite of your own after dipping it into your cup of cocoa. “I get why they’re seasonal but I wish I could find them so easily all year long.”

“Yes.” He agrees. “They would be good anytime.”

“What’s your favourite kind of cookie?” The question is innocuous enough, but you find yourself curious anyway. Curious to know about anything he feels like telling you.

He chuckles and lifts a shoulder innocently. “A good chocolate chip cookie is always a comfort.” He admits. “Sometimes the simple things are the best.” He twists his head and looks over to you. “What is yours?”

“Have you ever heard of a hermit cookie?” You ask, raising an eyebrow, and grinning in amusement when he looks confused. “It’s a soft, spice cookie. Like gingerbread. Sometimes with raisins and nuts in it. They’re a bit old fashioned, but wonderful with coffee.”

“They sound like I should try some.” He would try anything you recommend right now, a fact that should scare him but it doesn’t. “How old are the cookies?” He asks, thinking about his screenplay.

“They’re from the 1880s or 90s, I think?” It does not escape your amusement or notice that this is the same time that the house you work in was built. “I don’t know if they’ve ever been popular outside of New England, but we do love them there.”

He hums and takes note of that. Deciding he will research it. “Hermit cookies.” He repeats. “Are there recipes for this? Online?”

"Probably." His entire attention has now focused in on this just because you said it was your favorite cookie and that makes you smile in a way you can't quite explain.

“Then I will have to look it up.” He smiles as he takes another sip of his coffee. “I like researching things. It is very interesting. Like your marble mosaic tiles.”

"You researched the tiles?" It's the sort of thing that you would only think of you or your coworkers doing, but hearing that he has enjoyed his time in the house -- and possibly with you -- so much warms your heart.

“It was interesting to learn how they chose the marbles.” He nods. “I never imagined a trip to Europe to pick out building materials.”

"It's a heck of a reason for a vacation," you agree, laughing slightly at the opulence of it all.

“Yes. And trips would take months.” He chuckles.

"I can't even imagine." To take a vacation at all would be a miracle. But one that was months long? It sounds positively absurd to your ear.

“Do you think they ever got bored?” He asks curiously. “Or tired of being away from home?”

"I have to imagine that they did." It's a question you've thought on more than you want to admit, but the stories in your head are always about everyday things. Wondering what the mundane things were like. "If I had a home like this I can't imagine ever wanting to be away from it. But I suppose the right person can make anything worthwhile."

“Were they soulmates?” He asks softly, having avoided the personal backgrounds of the homeowners when taking the tour. He had tried to keep his own characters in mind.

“They were. And when they left the house to their daughter, she married her soulmate here. And then her daughter married her soulmate here, as well. The house has a history of lifelong loves.”

“That is nice.” His tone is wistful. “I don’t know if I will ever meet my soulmate.” Javi confides, normally keeping that information to himself but he blurts it out. “I worry about it sometimes.”

“I don’t know a single person who hasn’t worried about it at some point.” Even your sister, who said she didn’t mind not marrying her soulmate as long as the woman she found was a loving partner, had been thoroughly overjoyed when she had found her now wife on Mate Marks. Everyone thinks about it — worries about it — even if they don’t want to admit it. “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.” You offer him a smile, knowing you’ve gone over your fifteen minutes for your break and not wanting to be caught flirting with a guest on company time. “Whoever you do find is going to be very lucky to have you.”

He smiles again. “Have you found yours?” He figures you probably have, you are beautiful and captivating.

"Not yet." Even though you'd rather not, you stand from the bench. "I don't know if I ever will. Only time will tell."

“I know you have to go back to work.” Javi leaps off the bench and shuffles, wishing he could ask you to stay. “Thank you for showing me this place.” He bites his lip. “Uh, can I walk you back?”

The warmth rushes back to your cheeks, and you practically squirm with delight. "Thank you. I'd like that."

He offers his arm again, taking your empty hot cocoa cup from you to hold with his own trash. “Imagine the parties they used to hold here.” He breathes out as the two of you turn back towards the house.

"We're setting up an exhibit with some of the gowns. It's meant to open in about six weeks." You light up with that fact, excited to see all the swishing gowns and glimmering jewels for yourself. "Descendents of the family donated a large collection of clothing, shoes, and jewelry to the museum this part year."

“Wow.” He chuckles, thinking about the parties he would throw when he was pretending to be an olive oil exporter. He’s much happier being a screen writer, even if he can’t afford those parties and bought friends anymore. “That was generous of them.”

"They say the most spectacular pieces are still privately owned by the family, but the things I've seen so far have been absolutely gorgeous." If you're a little dreamy-eyed at the prospect, he doesn't seem to mind.

“It sounds like you would have loved to live during that time.” He smiles, knowing that he will have to insist the movie be filmed here.

"I'm probably overly romanticizing it," you admit. But the tent is in view already and you hate the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that wonders if he'll ever come back again. "I hope—" Biting back what you really hope, you go for a polite encouragement instead, "That the things you've found in your research have given you plenty to think about. And maybe romanticized it for you, too."

“It has.” Even if you have no interest in him, you’ve given him a focal point for his movie. “Thank you. This is a magical place.”

"Then I hope you'll come back again." At least in that you can be honest. There is nothing you would like more than to see him again.

“Really?” He’s surprised by your comment. Unless you are just being polite.

"Really." You promise him, but at the edge of the refreshments tent, you have to let his arm go.

He’s disappointed by the loss of your fingers on his jacket. “Well. I hope the rest of your night is magical.” He offers, bowing slightly and smiling at you.

"I can all but guarantee it now." One more smile. One more lingering, dopey smile, and you know you have to tear yourself away. "Have a good night..." Oh no. Have you really gone and sat and flirted with this man for your whole break and not even learned his name?

He nods and turns away, sure that it would be rude to try to extend the conversation. He will just have to go home and write about this, working it into the plot of his movie somehow.

******

Monday, June 10, 2024

The email went out before opening time, when only your bosses were up in the offices and the docent core hadn’t gotten to work yet. You’d nearly crashed your car in excitement while CarPlay read the email out to you on the highway.

A movie. An actual Hollywood movie is coming to film at the museum!

The second you clocked in and sprinted to the break room to put your things away, you almost clobbered Moira with squealed, giddy glee.

“Did you hear?? Did you see Leslie’s email?!”

“Oh my god, yesssss.” She lights up and nods quickly. “It’s a movie by that guy who did the Nic Cage movie a couple of years ago.” She informs you. “The one that won an Oscar and restarted that man’s career?” After a long slump of bad movies, the older actor had exploded back on the scene, apparently full of new life and motivation for his trade.

“I can’t wait until we find out more!” Being able to hug your friend and squeal together is such a rush. The two of you have become joined-at-the-hip work friends to the point where the friendship has bled into everyday life. “A name, a plot, any of the stars?”

“Actors.” She sighs dreamily. “Imagine if your soulmate or mine, is an actor who comes to film?” She loves the glitz and glam of Hollywood and always secretly imagined being an actress herself, although she’s realistic enough to understand that it would be impossible to have happen.

“Maybe yours will be.” You laugh, hugging her again before you have to break away to pull your radio headset out of your bag. There is still work to do today, desire the excitement. “You’ll have to make sure you always wear your hair up so your tattoo is visible.” The little raven behind her ear would be a hell of a lot easier to show off than the tarot card on her though, anyway. Moira’s tattoos are gorgeous and just unique enough that you would bet there was no duplicate in the works besides her soulmate.

“Oh I’m planning on it.” She licks her lips and waggles her brows suggestively. “What about you? Yours aren’t so visible.” She knows how much you secretly want to meet your soulmate and be with them. It was a drunken girl’s night confession but she had never teased you over it.

“There’s no reason to go around showing everyone my marks.” You shrug a little and busy yourself with plugging into a walkie-talkie and adjusting your headset in your ear. “A lot of people have ankle scars, don’t they? And I can’t exactly show off my butterfly.” Exposing that much skin is definitely against dress code.

“Is it your scar or his?” You had never mentioned that, just that you had a scar.

“It’s theirs.” However your soulmate is, you’ve tried very hard not to make assumptions about them. The person you hope for might not be the person you get, and that wouldn’t be fair to them. “I was nine when it appeared, so my best guess has always been they fell out of a tree or play sports.”

“And the tattoo is yours?” She knows, she’s just chatting because it’s better than actually getting ready to work right now.

“Twenty-first birthday.” You nod, knowing that she knows but that Moira likes a slower start to her day than you usually do. “I did the opposite of most people. I got the tattoo and then went out to get drunk.”

“Which is a very valid and smart thing to do.” She praises. “That way you don’t bleed too much and it’s a nice way to numb the pain after.” Her own walkie comes out to begrudgingly clip to her waist. “But this movie, it has to be a period piece, right? No way a modern millionaire would live in a house like this.”

“It has to be. There’s no point in renting out a historical house museum for four entire months unless you’re going to use it all.” Not that you know too much about the filming process, but it just makes logical sense. “And besides, they’re here in spring and summer, which is usually our busy season. So I’m sure Leslie charged them a fortune. But HBO can afford it, I guess.”

“What if they let us be extras?” Her eyes widen at the sudden thought. “Oh god, we could wear our work!” She giggles happily at the thought.

“I assume there will have to be extras somehow.” Truthfully, you’d let your Hollywood dreams die out a long time ago. Moira’s were much more present. It would be amazing to see her to be able to fulfill them with even just a morsel like being an extra. “I guess we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

“When it gets closer you will be just as excited as I am.” She predicts with a knowing grin.

“I’m plenty excited,” you promise, happily hugging her to your side as the two of you head out into the house together. “I just think you belong in front of a camera much more than I do.”

“You’ll change your mind.” She teases. “When you see what gorgeous actors and actresses they bring, you will be begging to flirt with them. On and off camera.”

“Maybe.” Her confidence is catching, and you laugh again at the thought of it. Hollywood has come knocking on your door and it’s already making work a hell of a lot more fun.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

[til-all-are-loved]

{This Charming Man Part 6}

MTMTE Megatron x Reader | SFW Word Count 2,464

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

The walk back to your chambers was quiet, the familiar thrum of  the quantum engines was absent– they had been powered down while the ship idled in orbit. 

You moved on instinct, your mind still on the conversation that had unfolded in the shuttle. The datapad rested in your hands, its weight a reminder of the confession Megatron had placed in your care.

Trust.

It wasn’t something he expected or deserved.

But he wanted it.

That was what unsettled you the most—not that he had given you something so deeply personal, but that you had accepted it without hesitation.

 Furthermore, it seemed he had only recently begun to see you as a person rather than an observer lurking in the background. The shift had been subtle at first—a glance held a moment longer, a conversation that stretched past necessity. But now, with the weight of his trust resting in your hands, the change felt undeniable.

You palmed open the door to your quarters. The overhead lights flickered on automatically, casting long shadows across the desk where your reports were written. 

You had admitted it before to yourself, in passing, but now the truth settled in—you were attracted to him. His voice, the deliberate way he carried himself, the way his optics lingered when you challenged him. You wanted to feel needed by him. It didn’t change anything. It couldn’t. But at least you could acknowledge it now.

Thoughts of your old colleagues crept in, unbidden. What would they say if they knew? To them, Megatron was a name synonymous with tyranny, his crimes etched into history like an immovable scar. They wouldn’t see what you saw—the quiet deliberation behind his words, the moments where his guard slipped just enough to reveal what he carried. They would call you compromised. Maybe you were. But what did it matter when the person they feared had already changed into something else—something still still dangerous, but captivating?

But beneath your defensiveness, something else stirred. Excitement. A strange, private thrill lit up your spirit, impossible to ignore. This wasn’t just a mission anymore. It was personal. You were seeing a side of Megatron few, if any, ever had. And for now, it was yours. Yours to process, yours to hold onto, yours to unravel at your own pace.

And the idea of that—of knowing something no one else did—felt intoxicating.

Your hands hovered over the keyboard, but you didn’t start typing.

Instead, you stared at the blank screen, the cursor blinking expectantly.

What was left to say?

You exhaled slowly, then let your fingers press against the keys.

Report to Earth Command – Month 18Ambassador’s Log

The situation aboard the Lost Light remains operationally stable. There have been no major incidents requiring intervention, and Megatron continues to adhere to the terms of his Autobot command. However, I must formally address a growing concern regarding my ability to provide an objective assessment.

You paused, your breath catching slightly at the admission forming on the screen. But you forced yourself to keep going.

Megatron continues to fulfill his role as co-captain of the Lost Light in accordance with the conditions outlined in his Autobot commission. There have been no recorded incidents of insubordination, nor any deviations from Autobot regulations. His command style remains structured, and his cooperation with the crew has been largely without issue.

However, this report seeks to address a developing concern regarding the integrity of this assessment and my ability to maintain impartiality.

Your fingers hesitated again.

He has displayed no outward signs of attempting to exert undue influence or revert to past authoritarian tendencies. Instead, he has exhibited a deliberate effort to engage in dialogue, accept criticism, and demonstrate accountability for his past actions.

This is not to suggest that the weight of his history has been erased, nor that his transition should be accepted without scrutiny. Rather, it is to acknowledge that his actions aboard the Lost Light contrast with the widely held perception of him as an immutable war criminal.

However, I must formally state that my capacity to provide an entirely unbiased report has become compromised. Prolonged exposure to his leadership, as well as direct engagement in discussions regarding his past and ideological evolution, has influenced my perception beyond strict observation. While I do not believe this has resulted in misrepresentation within prior reports, I can no longer guarantee that my assessments are entirely free from personal perspective.

You swallowed, staring at the words. They were damning, but they were honest.

Megatron remains compliant with Autobot leadership structures, and his conduct does not indicate any immediate threat or risk of recidivism. Continued monitoring is advised, but based on the data gathered, there is no evidence to suggest he is leveraging his position for subversive purposes.

However, due to the concerns outlined above regarding the potential for bias in my ongoing assessment, I defer to Earth Command’s judgment on whether my continued presence aboard the Lost Light remains the most effective course of action.

You hovered over the SEND command.

This was what Earth Command needed to know. That you were compromised. That someone else—someone without these entanglements—should take your place.

You set the data pad aside, pushing it further across your desk until it hit the edge of a stack of reports, half-buried beneath the paperwork you’d long neglected. Out of sight, out of mind. That business is done now. You had filed your report, voiced your concerns, and for tonight, at least, you weren’t going to dwell on it any longer.

You exhaled, stretching your arms over your head as you stood, joints popping after so long spent hunched over. The artificial lighting of your quarters buzzed softly overhead, casting the metallic walls in a dull, sterile glow. It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly, but it wasn’t warm, either. Like much of the Lost Light, your assigned living space was built for function over comfort. The ship’s engineers had done their best to replicate human accommodations, but in the end, it still felt like a small, self-contained habitat wedged inside a much larger space designed for Cybertronian scale.

Your “apartment” was nestled within what was originally meant to be a shared mech’s quarters—two massive recharge slabs on opposite sides of the room, with ceilings so high you could barely make out the edges where they met the walls. A metal scaffold had been constructed along one side, with a staircase leading up to your human-sized living space, walled off to create a separate environment comprising a bit more than half the room. It was practical, but being so small in the middle of all that empty space gave the unsettling impression that you were some kind of pet kept in an enclosure.

You stepped into your wash racks, shedding your uniform. The space was sufficient, a small metal chamber with an adjustable shower nozzle fitted into the wall. It was too clinical to be called a real bathroom, but it served its purpose. You had the foresight to bring along your own soft towels, stock of your favorite personal care items, and even little decorative tchotchkes, the reminders of home providing a sense of comfort. The moment the warm water hit your skin, some of the tension in your shoulders eased.

You scrubbed away the day, letting the steam cloud the edges of your thoughts. The report was done. Whatever happened next was beyond your control.

Afterward, wrapped in a towel, you wandered back into your living space, eyeing the rumpled sheets of your bed before deciding you weren’t quite ready to sleep. Instead, you flopped onto the couch, reaching for the small controller nestled between the cushions.

A familiar game booted up, the television bathing your face in a cool glow. It was something simple, a time-killer—one of the few forms of entertainment you had out here. The crew had been generous with sharing their media, but there were limits to what was compatible with human tech, and even then, the majority of Cybertronian entertainment was... well, a bit incomprehensible.

You thought about messaging Swerve to see if he was still up—he was always up—but hesitated. You weren’t in the mood for conversation. Not tonight.

---

The report was transmitted, you had no way of knowing the truth.

Not a single word of it would ever reach Earth.

Instead, it would land quietly, unnoticed, in Megatron’s personal files.

And he would read every word.

---

Megatron sat alone in his quarters, the glow of his terminal casting sharp lines of light across his features. He read in silence, optics scanning each line with an impassive expression, absorbing every detail. But within the careful neutrality in her, he could see it. The warmth. The distinctly human instinct to understand.

It unsettled him.

A slow ex-vent. He sat back in his chair, the metal creaking beneath his weight. He should have expected this.

It was only natural that prolonged exposure to him, to the reality of his existence beyond the war, would begin to erode the preconceptions she had carried with her onto this ship. He had allowed it. Encouraged it, even. A few carefully placed conversations, an acknowledgment here, a fleeting moment of understanding there—small, deliberate gestures, each one nudging her further along the path he had laid. A path to what?

Compassion was the outcome, and he was the cause of it. That should be a victory.

Megatron’s optics narrowed as he skimmed further, fingers resting lightly against his chin. She had read the poem, of course. He had known that the moment he gave it to her. 

Handing her that datapad was a mistake surely- his poetry constituted sensitive material. Material which he allowed himself to place in the hands of a human. Bitterness flushed through his systems. He could almost taste putrid fools energon on his glossa at the thought of meeting her wet eyes again wide and searching. He hated it. 

The hatred and rage could only flare so much. The darkness that had penetrated his spark ran deeply, at one time the well of contempt he could draw from was endless. Now as he reached for more venom he could grasp at nothing more. And when the anger was gone only guilt and regret remained to take its place.

He would have to walk it—no matter how much it unsettled him. No matter how much it forced him to confront the parts of himself he had buried.

Megatron’s hand hovered over the terminal, just for a klik before typing.

We regret to inform you that your resignation request is currently pending due to an unforeseen bureaucratic delay. Our department is working diligently to process all outstanding submissions, and we will notify you as soon as your request has been reviewed.

He read it over once, then sent it.

The lie sat uneasily in his systems, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. She needed to stay. That much was clear. The reasons, however, were harder to pin down. It wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t even about keeping a watchful eye on a potential weakness in the crew. No—there was something else, something he couldn’t quite force himself to name.

For now, it was enough to justify keeping her close. To ensure that every report she sent passed through his hands first, to study every thought she committed to writing. It wasn’t control. Not exactly.

With a low sigh, he lifted a hand and turned it over in the faint glow of the room. Scuffs and fine scratches marred the dark plating of his palm, remnants of skirmishes, maintenance work, and erosion of time. His servos had been made and unmade countless times, not much of his original body remained with him at present.

He flexed his fingers, watching the servos respond with perfect precision despite their imperfections. This body—his current form—had been reforged for another purpose. It had once been built for conquest, for crushing those who opposed him without hesitation. Now, its function has been rewritten. The weight of a fusion cannon had long since been stripped from his arm, and yet, even now, his hand curled as if expecting to feel its familiar presence.

Old habits.

He retrieved a polishing block from a nearby compartment, dragging it over the ridges of his knuckles with slow, methodical movements. It was an absent-minded ritual, one that had little effect beyond occupying his hands while his mind continued to churn.

His optics flickered toward the closed terminal once more. The report would never make it intended recipients. That, at least, was something still within his control.

Megatron set the block aside, flexed his fingers one last time, then stood. There was work to be done. And he would not allow himself to linger on this folly any longer than necessary. With a final glance around the quiet, empty room, he stepped out into the corridor.

He moved with purpose, letting the gentle hum of the Lost Light’s engines settle into the background. His mind should be elsewhere—on command duties, on logistical matters, on the countless routine obligations that kept the ship running.

Kt-oom vvrrt Kt-oom vvvrt Kt-oom

Step by thunderous step.

A voice interrupted his march.

"You’re up late."

Megatron's optics flickered toward the source—Rung, standing a short distance away, hands clasped in front of him. He wasn’t blocking Megatron’s path, nor did he make any indication that he intended to linger. And yet, there was something in the way he regarded him that suggested he had been waiting.

Megatron sighed, his expression unreadable. "A captain's responsibilities do not adhere to a schedule."

"Mm," Rung hummed, the sound deliberately neutral. "Of course. But I’d imagine you’d be accustomed to delegating by now."

Megatron narrowed his optics slightly. “Is there something you need, Rung?”

The smaller mech tilted his head slightly, studying him with that infuriatingly patient expression. “No,” he said simply. “But I suspect there’s something you need.”

Megatron tensed, just slightly, before letting his frame settle back into its usual commanding stillness. “If this is an invitation for another one of your attempts at psychoanalysis, I must decline. I have no interest in unnecessary introspection tonight.”

Rung made no attempt to stop him as Megatron took a step forward. But just before he could pass, the psychiatrist spoke again softly.

"It’s a funny thing about people, Megatron. The more you try to obscure yourself, the clearer you tend to become."

Megatron halted for a fraction of a second. Not long enough to be called hesitation, but long enough that Rung would have noticed.

Megatron didn’t turn back.

"Goodnight, Rung."

And then he was gone, his footfalls heavy against the corridor floor, the shadows swallowing his form.

Rung watched him go, optics flickering with contemplation before he finally turned in the opposite direction.

---

Authors Note // This song was on my mind while working on this chapter :)

[redsugarx]

青白之魅 5: Clothes & Accessories

1 Introduction & Presentation // 2 Background & Influences // 3 Hair & Makeup // 4 Set Design // 5 Clothes & Accessories // 6 Conclusion

This is the actual hanfu post of the hanfu series on this hanfu account! So if you’re here for HANFU and specifically HANFU this is it >:)))) We’re gonna get deep into the relics & archaeology with this one!

L: Cui Qing'er set, R: Bai Suzhen set, both Cloud9 Hanfu

So before we start. This bitch was supposed to be a four-piece set. However, my dumbass (and Yulan’s dumbass I guess) forgot about the pibo ;-; So it literally just doesn’t appear in the shoot and We Will Not Speak Of It. It still looks pretty great! Just completely slipped our minds amidst the chaos x-x

Anyway: each of these are (SUPPOSED to be) a four-piece set. The four pieces are 大袖褶衣/da4 xiu4 xi2 yi1/large-sleeved top，九破裙/jiu3 po4 qun2/nine-panel skirt，腰封/yao1 feng1/wide sash，and 披帛/pi1 bo2/shawl. The sash & shawl are smaller accessory pieces, so the main two pieces are the top and the skirt, each of which have six months of planning and design: they are completely custom printed and custom patterned, the culmination of months of research. I will be focusing on these two pieces in this post (I’ll go over the last two briefly at the end, they’re just not as interesting). 

Background: Northern Dynasty (386–589 ish)

Background for these sets: Both of these sets are referenced from the南北朝/nan2 bei3 chao2/Northern & Southern Dynasty, with more emphasis on the northern part. This was a very tumultuous time period that often gets looped in with the 魏晉/魏晋/wei4 jin4/Wei & Jin dynasties for a combination time period known as 魏晉南北朝. 

This means two major things in the context of hanfu research: 1) there’s a lot of very fast-paced exchange of culture and evanescent fashion trends going on, and 2) there are very few well-preserved textile relics to work off of. As a result, the sources for Northern & Southern Dynasty clothing often bounce off of chronologically adjacent Wei/Jin relics (sometimes Han, from before). This also means that physical garment relics that we usually depend on to learn about the patterning/construction of hanfu from that time period have to be supplemented with figurines and carvings from the time, so we can see what they were supposed to look like. There’s a lot of educated guesswork involved in recreating these garments.

Most types of hanfu have direct garment relics that their patterns are recreated/resized from. The strictest hanfu enthusiasts—called 形制黨/形制党/xing2 zhi4 dang3/‘form party’—only recognize hanfu that are constructed identically to an archaeological source, because a physical reference is the only way to ensure that the construction is ‘correct’ or would have been commonplace at the time. All other kinds of hanfu are considered hanyuansu or modified, hanfu-influences versions of clothing. I used to be stricter about this too, but I realized after several years researching hanfu that when you get really deep into it, the lines become really blurry. So if you’d like to be stricter about it, feel free to consider this set hanyuansu! But because a lot of historical research went into it, and I personally think it's very very likely that these constructions existed, I feel confident in calling it hanfu rather than guzhuang or ‘costume.��

大袖褶衣

The construction of this top is primarily based off of two archaeological relics from the Northern Dynasty: a sleeve piece and a 褶衣 (!注: 褶 is pronounced xi2 in this phrase) relic. There is very little material out there on the sleeve piece, but the xiyi is very famous and was restored by the China Silk Museum.

褶衣/xi2 yi1/Xiyi

绞缬绢衣, 中国丝绸博物馆/China Silk Museum

This is the xiyi. Its full technical name is the 絞纈絹衣/绞缬绢衣/jiao3 xie2 juan4 yi1/'twisted knot silk top,' but it's known colloquially as the 褶衣. Right now it's in the China Silk Museum's collection of artifacts.

It was originally excavated by the Gansu Institute of Archaeology from 甘肅花海畢家灘26號墓/甘肃花海毕家滩26号墓/gan1 su1 hua1 hai3 bi4 jia1 tan1 26 hao4 mu4/'Gansu province Huahai Bijiatan grave site #26,' which was discovered in May 2002. The burial site belonged to a woman who died in the year 377CE. Almost all clothing artifacts from the 魏晉南北朝 period that have been referenced in hanfu today came from this woman's tomb.

It used to look like this before it was restored by the China Silk Museum. You can read the restoration report here.

There's a whollllleeeeee textile analysis complete with microscope fiber images that I could go through here, but I'll save it for another post since my design doesn't have anything to do with the fabric of this piece, just the structure.

Now, I only used the torso portion of the Xiyi, since I used a different sleeve shape, so I won't be going over the Xiyi's sleeves either. The torso looks like this:

Fairly simple structure! It obeys all the general rules of hanfu construction. There are a few features to note though.

The back of the neck is very wide. Most open-front hanfu garments have a small gap at the top of the neckline. This garment, however, has a particularly wide gap.

There are no vents. I know it's not visible in the flat picture, but there are no side slits/vents, which is one of the main features distinguishing this piece from similar parallel-collar tops from the Song/Tang dynasties (usually known as 褙子/bei4 zi0/Beizi). This makes sense: vents are necessary for longer garments so that your hips don't get trapped, but for shorter garments they're not needed. This xiyi is 72cm long, which is still considered short.

There is no 'lan' piece. Modern convention dictates that a top with a lan piece be called a 襦/ru2 (again, modern convention in the hanfu community!!! This is not necessarily historically true). Since this top doesn't have one, it's not considered a Ru, earning its own name as the xiyi.

The root of the sleeve is narrow compared to the rest of the body. It's only about 1/3 the length of the torso.

Finally and most importantly, it's not a cross-collar garment, but the lapels aren't parallel either. Instead, they slope down diagonally from that wide-set neck and meet at a point at the bottom. There's a tiny portion that overlaps, but if you look closely you'll notice that it's actually only the trim that overlaps—if you took off the trim, the torso pieces would meet at the same point.

Keep these in mind as we move on.

錦緣綾大袖/锦缘绫大袖/jin3 yuan2 ling2 da4 xiu4/'Brocade Trim Silk Large Sleeve'

idek where I got this image, sorry

I spent a full three days scouring the internet for metadata on this thing (until I got hit with a 24-hour migraine and had to stop ;-;). It's a sleeve piece from the Northern & Southern Dynasties called the 錦緣綾大袖. Unfortunately, there is very very very little information out there about it.

From what I could find, this is because 1) it isn't a archaeological artifact excavated post-revolution (which is almost all the ones that are usually referenced), it was an heirloom and doesn't have very good digital records, and 2) it is allegedly in Japan, and I don't know Japanese so I'm not very good at finding information in Japanese. Do not quote me on either of those points; they could very well be misinformed, but I wasn't able to find anything else.

According to 大唐女儿行/大唐女兒行/da4 tang2 nv3 er2 xing2, a book by 左丘萌 (Zuo Qiumeng) and 末春 (Mo Chun) published by Tsinghua University Press, this sleeve piece is in the Nara Shosoin Repository's southern warehouse collection, and was shown during the 58th annual Shosoin Repository Exhibit.

However, I looked up the records of the artifacts shown during the 58th annual exhibit and this artifact is not on the showing list, and I went through three separate databases of Shosoin relics and found nothing, so I have my doubts about the accuracy of this citation. Most of the Shosoin's stuff is from the Tang Dynasty anyway.

So all I have is this picture, which has been passed around the hanfu community for ages. Fortunately, that's basically enough: 90% of hanfu sleeve pieces are constructed the same way, just in different shapes. So probably if you unfolded it, it'd look like this:

This shape is called 窄臂大袖/zhai3 bi4 da4 xiu4/'narrow bicep large sleeve,' because, well, it's narrow at the bicep but wide at the sleeve opening. This differs from later-dynasty wide sleeves, which do increase in width as you get closer to the cuff, but start out fairly large as well. The shape is backed up by a boatload of figurines from the Northern & Southern Dynasties.

Putting It Together

Okay, we've got a sleeve reference, and we've got a torso reference, and they both existed at the same time. That's... all of the parts we need to make a whole top! Here is the approximate franken-hanfu chimera we have put together:

But how likely is it that this combination existed?

Pretty likely, actually, if we look at some corroborating evidence. Here is an article about 袴褶装/ku4 xi2 zhuang1 by the National Museum of China. 袴褶装 is a type of outfit (in the sense that t-shirt-and-jeans is a type of outfit) often worn by Northern & Southern Dynasty figurines. 袴 is the archaic form of 褲/裤 which means pants. 褶 refers to the 褶衣 from the previous section. 袴褶装 is the combination of these two garments in an outfit.

According to the article, 袴褶装 was a clothing trend that originated in the north, where nomadic tribes who were often on horseback (some still are today!) preferred to wear pants and shorter tops for convenience. This later got adopted by the Central Plains people, and the pants and sleeves got wider and wider—so it's very conceivable that a xiyi with wider sleeves than this relic existed.

Here are some figurine pictures from all over China:

L: 陶文吏俑，北齐，徐州博物馆，1985？徐州狮子山北朝墓出土 (Ceramic Statue of Civil Official, Northern Qi, Xuzhou Museum, excavated 1985？from the Lion Mountain site in Xuzhou, Jiangsu)

C: 侍从陶俑，北魏，中国国家博物馆，1965年河南省洛阳市元邵墓出土 (Ceramic Statue of Attendant, Northern Wei, National Museum of China, excavated 1965 from the Yuanshao site in Luoyang, Henan)

R: 陶彩绘男俑，北魏，故宫博物院 (Colored Ceramic Statue of a Man, Northern Wei, China National Palace Museum)

So! I think that this combination is more than plausible. Take a look at these ones:

L: 陶女俑，东晋，中国国家博物馆，1955年江苏南京出土 (Ceramic Statue of a Woman, Northern Wei, National Museum of China, excavated 1955 from Nanjing, Jiangsu)

R: 彩绘陶女立俑，北朝，徐州博物徐州馆，茅村内华北朝墓出土 (Colored Ceramic Statue of Standing Woman, Northern Dynasty, Xuzhou Museum，excavated from Mao town site in Xuzhou)

Notice how the wide-set collar allows a little bit of the inside clothing (camisole? Undershirt? Who knows) to peek out at the chest. Keep that in mind when we circle back around to the whole outfit at the end :)

Materials & Details

The fabric used for these tops is called 百合緞/bai3 he2 duan4/‘lily satin’ in Chinese, but a lot of colloquial fabric names don’t transfer well between languages. It’s a sheer polyester fabric that’s somewhere between satin and organza. I’ve heard similar fabrics referred to as crystal organza. It has a very pretty liquid-like shimmer to it on the right side, which I felt was good for representing our ethereal water-bending snake spirits.

I went through dozens of fabrics trying to find the right texture that was available in the green-blue color needed for Xiaoqing, but fabrics of this kind often only come in macaron pastel colors. The targeted color was very specific—too green and it would no longer be 青, too blue and it wouldn’t match Dragun’s coloring. In the end, I had the color’s CMYK code custom printed onto white base fabric, then sent it off to be cut & sewn (by hanfu tailor workshop in Nanjing).

There is also trim sewn onto the collar (出芽/chu1 ya2) and sleeve cuffs, which is made from a beautiful red damask with cloud patterns woven into it. This pattern is a Ming Dynasty cloud pattern called the 四合如意雲紋.

These embroidered sleeves are one of the most costly parts of the set.

I drew the embroidery pattern by hand on a raster file over the course of a few weeks (I use a tablet + Clip Studio Paint pro), then worked with an embroidery workshop in Quanzhou to digitize it.

In the process of embroidering Xiaoqing's top, the fabric got snagged in the machine, and ripped a hole in the front of the right sleeve, which was very sad. There wasn't enough time to remake the whole thing before the shoot.

We rescued it by undoing the seam, chopping a portion of the sleeve off, and re-sewing it back together, resulting in a narrower sleeve opening than the white top (thank you workshop in Xuzhou!!!). The difference barely shows up on camera because it was so wide in the first place.

九破後褶裙

This is the garment that has the most guesswork associated with it, so it's the one that's least plausible to have existed, because I guessed a lot of it and pieced together a lot of sources to make it happen.

I was originally inspired by 玩泥巴的豆角 (user 'String Bean Playing with Mud') on Weibo. She's an incredibly talented historical costume enthusiast who's been the first to recreate tons of rarely-made hanfu pieces in addition to historical clothing from Korea, Vietnam, Japan, Europe, and recently Mongolia. She's also done handcrafted textiles, shoes, and other accessories. If you can read Chinese I highly recommend going through her posts but be careful because if you're like me you'll get sucked in and then neglect your homework for like a week.

This is a post that I saw back in 2023. She points out a kind of skirt often seen in Northern Dynasty figurines that has narrow pleats in the back but not in the front:

太原北齐东安王娄睿墓单螺髻侍女俑（505，508）/ Northern Qi Taiyuan Dong'an Wang Lourui Burial Site（artifact 505, 508)

She posits that there are two likely possibilities for the construction of this skirt: the 破裙/po4 qun2/'broken skirt' structure or the 百迭裙/bai3 die2 qun2/hundred-layer skirt structure (more on that later). Her recreation is structured closer to the Song Dynasty baidiequn skirt structure, with the reasoning that it would be easier to modify into a poqun later if an excavation ever came out confirming that it was a poqun, but it would be much harder to turn a poqun back into a baidiequn.

玩泥巴的豆角's image, linework of figurines with pleated-back skirts

For various reasons, one of which being that I'm not claiming this to be historically immaculate, I wanted to explore the possibility of a poqun structure. In addition, I actually do think that this pleated-back skirt is more likely to be a poqun than a Song baidiequn.

My understanding is that the baidiequn structure, which is essentially a long rectangle with pleats on it that gets wrapped around your waist, only got trendy in the Song Dynasty. There's a report of a few rectangular pleated skirts from the Tang Dynasty Famensi site (Shing Mueller, Center for Sinology, University of Munich) as well, but not much before that, and the pleats are very wide compared to a baidiequn.

Poqun, however, have been around since at least the Warring States period. We know this because of the several excavated artifacts from the Warring States Period, the Han Dynasty, the Jin Dynasty, and the Tang Dynasty. (The Warring States Period is wayyyyy before the Northern Dynasty.) Since time only moves in one direction, I think it makes more sense to assume that an older cut of clothing still existed in a time period after there's evidence that it existed, rather than before.

What's a poqun anyway? I like to describe it as Ye Olde Circle Skirt (sector skirt if you want to be pedantic about it). It's a way to make the flared circle skirt pattern happen at a time when your fabric is only 74cm wide: you cut out a bunch of trapezoids, sew them together, and end up with this sunburst shape. Trim the hem and you've got what's essentially a partial circle skirt.

L: 江陵馬山楚墓深黄絹單裙（N-17-3), 中國古代服飾研究 p. 92, 沈從文 / Jiangling Mashan Chu Kingdom burial site dark yellow unlined skirt (N-17-3), Research in Ancient Chinese Fashion p. 92, Shen Congwen

R: 長沙馬王堆漢墓單裙，中國古代服飾研究 p. 159，沈從文 / Changsha Mawangdui Han burial site unlined skirt, Research in Ancient Chinese Fashion p. 159, Shen Congwen

The two complete poqun skirts excavated before the Northern Dynasty are a four-panel underskirt from 馬王堆漢墓/马王堆汉墓/ma3 wang2 dui1 han4 mu4/Mawangdui Han Dynasty burial site in Changsha, and an eight-panel skirt from 江陵馬山楚墓/江陵马山楚墓/jiang1 ling2 ma3 shan1 chu3 mu4/Jiangling Mashan Kingdom of Chu burial site. Later Tang Dynasty artifacts also show poqun with 12, 16, even 32 panels, often alternating colors. You'll notice that most of these are even-numbered, because the trapezoids are made by splitting a rectangular piece of fabric into two pieces with a diagonal line, like this:

So why is my design nine panels?

Here's my reasoning: First, I knew I wanted to stay around 8 panels, which seems like a reasonable number based on artifacts at the time (chronologically 8, 4, 6, 6, 12).

The 9th piece was inserted because of how pleating works. If you want full parallel knife pleats without messing with the symmetry, the fabric has to be rectangular. So one of my pieces has to be a rectangle, and it has to be in the middle. If I want the number of panels on each side of this rectangle to be the same (for symmetry), there's going to have to be an odd number of panels.

Now let's decide what's going on on either side of this pleated rectangle. Say we've inserted the rectangle in the middle of a uniform 8-panel poqun, which was my original intention. That means we get 4 panels on each side of the rectangle:

Traditionally, the panels are always right trapezoids. But now there's a problem: the legs of these two adjacent trapezoids are not the same length, so the curvature on each side of the rectangle is different.

What if we turn the trapezoids on one side around, so that it's symmetrical? Well, now we have another problem: the different parts of the skirt are different lengths.

All right, so the problem is that the legs of the trapezoids are different lengths. Easy fix: use isosceles trapezoids instead.*

*Worried about fabric waste? Don't be! What do you get when you chop an isosceles trapezoid in half! Two right trapezoids. You can still use the same technique :) I just didn't for this skirt.

Lastly, mostly to make it easier to do math, and since I've already bastardized the traditional poqun cut anyway, I made the last two panels rectangles (these will overlap with each other when the skirt is put on). This is to make it so that the number of rectangles and the number of trapezoids are both divisible by 3 (makes it easier to adjust calculations based on peoples' measurements).

This is the final structure of the skirt body:

What about the skirt head? One of the reference images on the Weibo post clearly showed thick shoulder straps on a chest-high skirt style. This is the style that op recreated. Most people consider chest-high skirts a marker of the Tang Dynasty, but skirt bands were migrating locations way before then.

河南洛阳朱仓北朝墓，新浪河南 / Zhucangcun, Luoyang, Henan Northern Dynasty Burial Site, Sina Henan

In 2022, a stone bedframe (artifact M260) from the Northern Dynasty was excavated in Zhucangcun, Luoyang, Henan. It was carved all over with unusually clear reliefs. One part of it depicted court ladies:

河南洛阳朱仓北朝墓，新华网 / Zhucangcun, Luoyang, Henan Northern Dynasty Burial Site, Xinhua News Network

As you can see, a very wide skirt head is clearly worn and tied over the chest. So let's tack a wide skirt head and some ribbons onto this thing. And because nobody has time to deal with chest high skirts falling down, a pair of adjustable shoulder straps. I wanted them to be adjustable so mine are very thin, but the existence of shoulder straps in general is supported by wall art and figurines, especially in combination with this back-pleated skirt.

Shitty brainstorming pen & paper sketches by me

That's the whole skirt! Congratulations.

After a shit ton of geometry and working with hanfu patternmakers from Fujian to CAD the design out digitally, each of these panels were printed directionally with a custom gradient onto satin, laser-cut (by fabric workshop in Shaoxing), and sewn together (by hanfu tailor workshop in Yangzhou) :) This process took approximately 5 months.

腰封 & 披帛

I am unbelievably tired after writing all that and also I'm at tumblr's image limit so I will just put these pictures here so you can admire the pretty embroidery on the pretty fabric.

A yaofeng is a wide waist sash or 'corset belt' style thing. A pibo or peizi is a long piece of flowy fabric that acts as a shawl that women carry on their shoulders or elbows. The pibo didn't make it onto the set, but the yaofeng did. Its design is not that interesting (it's an extremely wide hexagon with ribbons sticking out of it to tie on your waist) so I will just let you use your eyes.

-

If you made it this far without your eyes bleeding you're doing better than me! This is the most technical part of the series—not much artsy symbolism going on but a lot of hanfu archaeology work. I am again very tired after writing this and am not sure if some of it is incomprehensible, but feel free to send me asks and stuff about it :) Only one post left to wrap it all together!

1 Introduction & Presentation // 2 Background & Influences // 3 Hair & Makeup // 4 Set Design // 5 Clothes & Accessories // 6 Conclusion

[keepingitformyself]

older (and wiser): iii

A/N: well here we are! the final chapter of “older (and wiser).” this will not be the end tho! i plan to write a prequel series going more into depth about wanda and readers past, how they came to be, how they fell apart and what not. i do want to to make one more thing clear before you continue reading; this story is meant to be as realistic as possible. meaning the ending may not be for everyone. i specifically wrote this with intent of giving these characters an emotional arc they deserved. so, without further ado, enjoy this final chapter!

synopsis: wanda comes over for dinner one last time.

pairings: wanda maximoff x reader

genre: angst

warnings: it’s gonna be sad lowk. get the tissues ready.

MASTERLIST series masterlist

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

wanda spends most of the night back at her hotel, staring out the large window that overlooks the city. neon signs flicker in the distance, their glow casting fragmented patterns across her room.

she leans her forehead against the cool glass, letting the city hum around her, lost in thoughts of you. she imagines what you could be doing right now. if paul’s arms were wrapped around you, if he makes you laugh the way she used to. a hollow ache settles in her chest as she lets herself sink into the deep loss of not having you anymore.

the next day, early morning, wanda’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. she reaches for it groggily, only to find a message from you at the top of her screen.

come by at 6:30? here’s the address: 150 west 26th street, new york, ny 10001. see you soon!

for a moment, wanda just stares at the screen, her thumb hovering over the message. she exhales slowly, closing her eyes as a wave of uncertainty washes over her. part of her wants to pack her bags right then and there, to book an early flight and leave you in this city behind.

she doesn’t know which is worse. never facing you again or having to sit across the dinner table from you and your husband-to-be.

she spends the rest of the day mentally preparing herself for how this evening could go, running through endless scenarios in her head.

what would one talk about when having dinner with their ex’s fiance? especially when said ex is someone you’re still seemingly in love with.

oh yeah, your fiance used to look at me the same way.

or

of course, i know what her favorite song is. ‘do i ever cross your mind?’ by dolly parton. i performed it for her on our eighth month anniversary.

yeah, i paid the tech guy in the theatre department extra to let me use the theatre after hours.

the thoughts make her cringe, but the bitterness is hard to suppress. she tries to bite back the small, unwarranted hatred she’s developed for paul. everything she’s learned about him—despite her best efforts not to—has been nothing but positive.

he’s generous, patient, successful, and clearly loves you. and wanda knows you wouldn’t be marrying someone who didn’t treat you like you deserved the whole world.

it’s all pathetic in its nature. she should have been over you long by now. but she doesn’t know how to explain to you— to explain to herself—that leaving you is still something she’s trying to process. that even when she didn’t appreciate you enough, you felt like everything to her. you still do.

and she doesn’t know how to make sense of any of it.

by the time the sun sets, wanda’s resolve is still fragile. she dressed carefully, standing in front of the mirror for far too long, fussing with her appearance. she wants to look composed, unbothered. as if seeing you happy with someone else doesn’t feel like dagger to the heart. one that you keep twisting without trying.

at 6:15, she steps outside her hotel and hails a cab, clutching a bottle of wine she bought earlier as a polite gesture. as the cab weaves through the bustling streets of new york, wanda wonders what kind of expression you’ll wear when you see her. will it be warm, nostalgic, indifferent? she braces herself for anything.

when the cab drops her off in front of a sleek residential building in tribeca, she lingers for a moment before buzzing in. the door unlocks with a soft click, leading her into a quiet corridor toward an elevator. she steps inside, pressing the button for your floor with a hand that feels unsteady.

the walls feel too close. the air feels too thick.

by the time she reaches your door, her nerves are frayed. she knocks twice, her heart hammering.

four seconds later, the door swings open, and there you are, beaming at her like no time has passed.

"hi! it’s so good to see you."

before wanda can say anything, you pull her into a hug, warm and familiar. she exhales sharply, caught off guard, but she lets herself sink into it, just for a moment.

when you pull away, she notices the man standing just a few feet behind you, a cat in his arms. he watches the interaction with a patient, kind smile before gently setting the cat down.

“sorry about that,” paul says, laughing as the cat immediately tries to sneak toward the door. "he bolts every chance he gets."

then, without hesitation, he steps forward and grasps wanda’s hands in his own. his grip is firm, his smile genuine.

“it’s really nice to meet you, wanda.”

for a second, wanda is stunned by the ease of his kindness. she had spent so much time building him up in her head as an obstacle, an enemy, but standing here now, faced with his warmth, she almost felt guilty for ever resenting him.

“thank you for having me,” she manages, recovering quickly. she glances around, taking in the space. "you have a lovely home."

then, as if suddenly remembering, she reaches into her bag.

“i brought some wine,” she says, handing it to you. “the expensive kind. i know my stuff.” she huffs out a small laugh, forcing some lightness into her voice.

paul chuckles, taking the bottle from your hands to examine it. “i like her already.”

and just like that, wanda knows this is going to hurt more than she thought.

dinner passes in a blur of polite conversation and well-meaning smiles. paul is gracious, effortlessly kind, and wanda hates how easy it is to like him. she hates that there’s nothing about him to hate at all.

she watches the way you lean into him when you laugh, how his hand absentmindedly finds yours on the table. it’s second nature, the kind of comfort that only comes with time, with certainty.

and wanda knows, without question, that she has none of those things with you anymore.

paul has made it a habit to ask about how you and wanda met. even though she’s sure he already knows most of the story, he’s always genuine in wanting to hear more, especially the parts you tend to leave out.

“you got any funny stories about this one?” paul asks, flashing wanda a pointed smile. “something embarrassing, please.”

wanda huffs out a quiet laugh, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. she has plenty. but as she glances between you and paul, there’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. some memories feel lighter than others. some carry more weight than she knows what to do with.

still, when she sees the way you’re watching her; curious, amused, trusting, she decides to tell it.

“oh, i’ve got one,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “back in college, we tried to break into the theatre department after hours. it wasn’t really breaking in, technically, the door was open, but we definitely weren’t supposed to be there. they had this whole wire rig set up for the upcoming peter pan production, and somebody—” she tilts her chin toward you “—thought it would be a great idea to try it out.”

paul turns to you, amused. “why am i not surprised?”

you groan, already bracing for the rest of the story. wanda smirks but continues, her voice softer now.

“so, there she was, strapped into this ridiculous harness, so sure she was about to soar across the stage like some theatrical prodigy. but the second she tried to lift off, the harness jammed, and instead of flying, she was just—”

“i was dangling there,” you chime in, groaning at the memory. “like some tragic shakespearean ghost.”

“and then, of course, security walks in,” she says, shaking her head. “and instead of, i don’t know, explaining, she panicked and yelled, ‘i have done the deed. didst thou not hear a noise?’”

paul bursts out laughing, nearly choking on his drink. “you did not.”

“she did,” wanda confirms, laughing softly. “the security guy just stood there for a second, like he was reconsidering every choice that led him to that moment, then sighed and said, ‘get down.’”

paul grins, shaking his head. “so, what happened next?”

“i had to help her out of the harness before we both got kicked out,” wanda says. “and then we ran. fast.” she pauses, her smile dimming just a little. “ended up at that all-night diner by campus instead. sat there for hours, drinking burnt coffee, still laughing about it.”

her voice drifts for a moment, lost in the memory. you swallow, feeling something heavy settle in your chest, but before the silence can stretch too long, you force out a small chuckle.

“i could’ve flown,” you say, shaking your head. “i just needed a little more time.”

wanda looks at you then, and there’s something in her gaze. something paul doesn’t quite catch, but you do.

“yeah,” she murmurs. “maybe you just needed more time.”

paul laughs again, unaware of the way wanda’s fingers tighten around her glass. “you two were absolute menaces, huh?”

and just like that, the moment passes. the air lightens again, and Wanda takes another sip of her wine. but the memory lingers between you, heavier than it should be.

“did she ever tell you that we watch some of your movies sometimes?” paul cuts in, his eyes bright with genuine curiosity. there’s an eager energy to him, the kind that makes it clear he isn’t just saying it to be polite—he actually wants to talk about her work.

wanda raises an eyebrow, glancing at you. “oh?”

you offer a small, sheepish smile, and paul continues before you can respond.

“i mean, seriously,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “i’m already a pretty emotional guy, but your movies? they wreck me.”

wanda lets out a soft, amused laugh, her fingers absently tracing the stem of her wine glass. “that’s very kind of you to say.” she takes a slow sip before adding, almost offhandedly, “i guess i just have a thing for playing characters in distress.”

paul barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head. “yeah, well, you do it very well. it’s almost unfair.”

wanda smirks, but there’s something thoughtful in the way she tilts her head, as if considering his words. then, with a teasing glint in her eye, she leans in slightly and says, “i take it you’re a crier, then?”

paul places a hand over his chest in mock offense. “absolutely. no shame.”

that earns a more genuine laugh from wanda, and for a moment, the tension in her shoulders eases. the air between the three of you feels a little lighter.

when the plates are empty and the conversation slows, paul pushes back his chair with a contented sigh.

“i’ll start on the dishes,” he says, already stacking plates. “you two should catch up.”

you smile at him, appreciative, and wanda feels something twist in her chest. she shouldn’t be here. she doesn’t belong here.

still, she doesn’t move.

you refill your wine glass and lean back in your chair, watching her carefully. wanda swirls what’s left in her own glass, staring at the deep red before speaking.

“maybe i should’ve tried to convince you to run off with me,” she jokes, her voice light, almost teasing.

but when she finally looks up, she sees the way your expression falters, just for a second. you know, both of you do, that it isn’t really a joke.

you let out a small breath, shaking your head with a soft chuckle. “that wouldn’t have changed anything, wanda.”

“wouldn’t it?” she asks, a little too quickly.

your eyes search hers, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like the past is sitting between you, untouched, waiting.

wanda wonders if there’s a universe where you had run off together. if there’s a version of you out there, tangled up in her arms instead of in someone else’s.

she swallows hard. “i wish i had tried a little harder.”

your face softens, but it’s not enough to undo the distance between you. “you couldn’t help it,” you say, voice gentle.

"i could have," she insists, her hands gripping the stem of her glass a little too tightly. there’s frustration in her voice, but beneath it, there’s something raw. regret, maybe.

you don’t argue. you won’t. because the truth is, she could have.

"yeah," you admit, barely above a whisper. "maybe."

silence settles between you. wanda watches as your gaze shifts toward the window, toward the street where people pass by, oblivious to the ache sitting between you both.

she doesn’t know what she was expecting. maybe some kind of reassurance that she still lingers in your mind the way you linger in hers. that if things had been different, if she had been different, this could have been her home, her life.

but you don’t give her that.

paul’s voice calls from the kitchen. “babe, where’s the dish soap?”

you blink, turning toward the sound, and the spell is broken.

wanda forces a smile, downing the last of her wine before standing. “i should get going.”

you don't question it.

you grab wanda’s coat from the rack and walk her to the door. she doesn’t ask you to, but neither of you are quite ready for the night to end without one last moment.

“leaving so soon?” paul asks suddenly, his voice light but tinged with something unreadable. both you and wanda turn to face him.

she nods apologetically, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “i have an early flight tomorrow,” she admits, offering a small, regretful smile.

“oh.” paul’s disappointment is subtle but there, it flickers in his eyes before he shapes his expression into something more polite. “well, it was really nice meeting you, wanda.”

you glance at him, catching the way he shifts slightly, rubbing his thumb over the inside of his palm. a small habit of his when he’s holding something back. you wonder, briefly, if tonight was difficult for him too, if he’s been carrying the weight of this evening the same way you have. you decide you’ll ask him about it later.

stepping forward, you lean in to press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the way his jaw relaxes at the familiar gesture. his hand finds yours easily, his fingers warm and steady against your own.

“i’m just gonna walk her out,” you murmur, giving his hand a small squeeze.

paul nods, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he offers wanda another polite smile. “safe travels,” he says, his voice kind, sincere.

as you lead wanda toward the door, you feel the weight of paul’s gaze lingering on you, as if he knows that this goodbye is heavier than it appears.

the air outside is crisp, carrying the distant hum of the city. wanda stands beside you on the curb, her arms wrapped around herself despite the warmth of her coat. the streetlights cast long shadows, and for a second, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of something you’ll never get back.

her uber is a few minutes away. that’s all the time you have left.

she exhales softly, eyes fixed on the passing cars. then, as if she’s been holding it in all night, she finally asks, “do you think we could have worked things out? if we had been different people? under different circumstances?”

the question hits you. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. because the truth is, you don’t know.

maybe in another life. maybe in a world where you didn’t leave the hotel before she could see you, where you both didn’t have to love each other from a distance, where you didn’t have to wonder if loving her meant waiting for something that wasn’t enough.

but this isn’t that world.

you swallow hard, staring down at the pavement. “i don’t know, wanda.”

she nods, as if she expected that answer, but the sadness in her eyes deepens anyway. “me neither.”

the uber pulls up, headlights cutting through the night, and you both turn toward it. this is it. the real goodbye.

wanda hesitates, then reaches for you, pulling you into one last embrace. you don’t know who’s holding onto who tighter. when she pulls away, her hand lingers on your arm for a second too long before she finally steps back.

“take care of yourself,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

you give her a tight-lipped smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you too, wanda.”

she slides into the backseat, and as the car pulls away, you stand frozen on the sidewalk, watching until the taillights disappear around the corner.

and then it hits you.

the weight of it all crashes down at once. the grief, the finality, the understanding that there are some lives you’ll never get to live, some love stories that will never get their second chance.

you press a hand to your mouth as your chest tightens, eyes stinging, but you force yourself to turn back toward the building before you fall apart completely.

when you step into the lobby, you’re not surprised to see paul waiting by the elevator. he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t have to.

the moment you reach him, you break.

a choked sob escapes you as you fall into his arms, and he holds you without hesitation, one hand smoothing over your hair, the other wrapped firmly around your back.

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs against your temple. and you believe him.

because this was never about leaving him.

you love paul. you’ve never questioned that.

but love doesn’t erase the what-ifs. it doesn’t quiet the ache of knowing there’s a version of you out there who loved wanda differently, who had a life that was beautiful in its own way. one that you’ll never get to live.

paul presses a kiss to your hair and just holds you, letting you mourn what could have been.

and when you’re finally ready, he walks you up.

[firefly464]

Scott | Pearl | Martyn | Cleo | Scar | Grian (You are here!)

Word Count: 5,408

Fandom: 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Charles | Grian & Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar, Charles | Grian & Pearl | PearlescentMoon, Charles | Grian & Scott Major | Smajor1995

Characters: Charles | Grian, Pearl | PearlescentMoon, Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar, Scott Major | Smajor1995

Additional Tags: POV Second Person, Character Study, Only Winners Remember the 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series, Post-3rd Life SMP, Post-Last Life SMP, Post-Double Life SMP, Post-Secret Life SMP, Post-Wild Life SMP, oh boy this one goes through them all :DDD, Memory Alteration, 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series-Typical Character Death, Charles | Grian-centric, Avian Charles | Grian, Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Charles | Grian/Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar, kinda. again its more implied than anything, so! read as either /r or /p either way works :D, Implied/Referenced Suicide, its the end of third life. but he DOES in fact do it. and it IS talked about, Grian and his relationship with memory, Hurt/Comfort, GUYS THERES ACTUAL COMFORT IN THIS ONE I PROMISE

Series: Part 6 of Life after Life (again and again and again)

Summary:

You’re back. You’re back home and you’re safe and you’re alive.

You’re not in the desert and you’re not in your little panic bunker and you’re in your hobbit hole and you’re alive.

Your body doesn’t feel right. The skin is too loose. Your muscles feel too weak. It’s like someone ripped your soul from your body and couldn’t quite figure out how to put it back.

You numbly stare at your hands.

~~~

Or, an exploration of Grian and the memories that he is forced to carry.

~~~

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62846907

Or read it under the cut :D

~~~

There is no celebration when you win. There’s no applause as you hold your partner's broken body. No cheers as you push yourself up. 

There is no one to reach out and scream your name as you step off the towering cliff. 

There is only the ground rushing up to meet you. 

And then there is only darkness. 

~~~

You’re back. You’re back home and you’re safe and you’re alive.

You’re not in the desert and you’re not in your little panic bunker and you’re in your hobbit hole and you’re alive.

Your body doesn’t feel right. The skin is too loose. Your muscles feel too weak. 

It’s like someone ripped your soul from your body and couldn’t quite figure out how to put it back. 

You numbly stare at your hands.

Your hands.

Something’s wrong with your hands. You have no idea what it is but you know that something’s not right. 

They’re still your hands obviously, but you can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right as you stare at them. 

…

Your scars are gone. They’re gone.

You raise a hand to your face, feel the skin along your cheek. Nothing.

Every scar and mark and piece of evidence that you survived the past two months are just… gone. 

You may not have liked them, but they were yours.

It feels wrong. Your body feels wrong, it’s broken, it’s completely disconnected from you and your breathing is speeding up and you know that you need to calm down but you can’t because it was always Scar that would help you calm down from a panic attack but Scar isn’t here right now because—

Scar. Scar.

The name cuts through your panic like a knife. 

You’re back on Hermitcraft. Which means that Scar might be here. 

Which means— 

You need to find him. 

~~~

Your flight to Scars base is far from graceful. Your landing even less so. 

You can’t bring yourself to care. Not when Scar could be alive. Not when he could be so close. 

“Scar!!!” You pound your fist against the door. “Scar open the door!!!” 

No response. Shit.

This is taking too long. What if he isn’t here? Or what if he’s injured and he isn’t able to get to the door and he needs help and—

The door creaks open. 

Scar is standing in front of you. He’s in front of you and he’s alive and his skin is warm and his eyes are green and he looks like he just woke up but he’s alive and you can’t stop the sob that bubbles up from your throat as you launch yourself at him and hug him tightly. 

Later, you will look back and chide yourself for being so blind. For not noticing how wrong everything feels.

But that is later. And now is now. And right now all you care about is the fact that he’s here with you.

He stumbles back slightly, but he hugs you back regardless. “Whoa! Whoa… hey, it’s ok, you’re ok…”

It’s the same tone he used whenever you woke up screaming. It’s warm. It’s kind.

You pull back from the hug and grab his face so you can see it better. 

He looks so different. His face is fuller, his hair is clean, most of the scars that you had spent so many weeks mapping out are gone, but it’s still so clearly him.

God. He looks so much better than he ever had back in the desert. 

And his eyes… they’re green. Not blood red or sickly yellow or even the violent green of someone who has never lost a life. They’re simply… dark green. 

You think you might start crying again. 

“Uhhh, G? Not that I’m not flattered or anything but… are you ok?”

It’s such a ridiculous question, you want to laugh. He’s really asking if you’re ok. As if he’s not the one that was just beaten to death by the person who had stayed by his side through everything.

“Your eyes are green…” is what you say instead, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Yes…?” He looks confused. “Are they not supposed to be…?”

You don’t bother to hide the small huff of amusement. “No… no, green is good. Green is very good.”

“Good! That’s good! Um… remind me why it’s good?”

Something dark starts to form in the back of your mind. You grip his face slightly tighter. “B-because it means they’re not red.”

“Right, right, of course.” No recognition. “Uh, why would they be red?”

It’s like a bucket of ice water has been dumped on your head. You stumble backwards. You force yourself to look at him, to really look at him. 

Oh. Oh god. 

You’re so stupid.

The way he holds himself— it’s all wrong. It’s too relaxed, too gentle. There’s none of the harsh corners that had been carved out in the desert. None of the cruelty that had once lurked behind his gaze. 

This isn’t your Scar. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember.

He doesn’t remember the desert and he doesn’t remember what you’ve been through together and the world is crashing down around you and Scar is reaching out to grab you and your wings are unfurling out behind you as your face contorts into a snarl and Scar looks horrified and confused and you—

You don’t dare look back as you fly away. 

~~~ 

You’re the only one who remembers. You’re the only one who remembers the hell that you went through. 

Everyone that you mention it to asks you if you’re feeling ok. If you’ve been sleeping enough. They ask you if you’ve been having nightmares, or perhaps you’re feeling stressed? Have you considered taking some time off? Maybe you should take a vacation before everyone migrates to the new season, it might do you some good!

It doesn’t take long for you to stop asking. 

Maybe they’re right. Maybe you really did make the whole thing up and it was nothing more than a dream. It’s not like you have any proof. Even your skin contradicts your story. 

All you have left are your own memories. 

You really hope everyone else is right. 

~~~ 

The hope doesn’t make the nightmares go away. It doesn’t stop you from waking up screaming or flying over to Scar’s base in the middle of the night just so you can make sure that his skin isn’t grey and his eyes are green and that he’s safe.

It doesn’t change the fact that it takes weeks for you to be able to talk to anyone without a hand on your sword. Or the fact that it takes even longer for you to be able to talk to Ren without feeling sick. Or the fact that you constantly have to remind yourself that you have wings that work, that they aren’t just dead weight attached to your back.

But you hold onto the hope regardless. You’re not sure what you would do without it. 

~~~

Season seven ends and season eight begins. You’re almost able to forget the entire thing ever happened. 

Almost. 

~~~~~

And then you’re pulled back in.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or cry. On one hand, this means that it was real. It was real. The two golden hearts on your arm are proof of that. Proof that you weren’t losing your mind. 

But on the other… you’re back. You’re back.

You reach out and grasp the memory of home. You find it and you hold it tight. 

You don’t want to lose it again. 

~~~

It doesn’t hurt as much when you wake up in Boatem this time. There’s no crushing guilt, no desperate need to find someone and check that they’re ok. 

There is only the phantom ache in your gut of a respawn gone wrong. 

Your injuries have been erased again. It feels just as strange and uncomfortable as it did the first time. Your skin doesn’t feel like your own anymore. 

It’s going to take you a while to get used to it again.  

You have no way of knowing who won. You were killed long before a victor was crowned. 

You try not to think about it too much. 

~~~

You find Pearl a few days later, sitting on the edge of the Boatem hole. Her feet dangle over the edge, over the gaping maw of certain death. 

You have to stop yourself from reaching forward and pulling her back. 

She’s fine, you tell yourself. Death is nothing more than an inconvenience here. You all sit there all the time. She’s fine.

She doesn’t react when you come sit next to her. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on empires?” That’s what the Boatem group calendar had said at least. 

Her face scrunches up. “Decided to come back early. Scott was acting weird.”

“What?”

“Not like— mean, weird, just… weird. I don’t see him normally, but he keeps coming over and visiting. I heard someone say that he’s doing the same thing to Jimmy.”

You have a sinking feeling that you might know where this is going. “And?”

“He keeps looking at me like I’m already dead.”

~~~

<Grian> are you ok?

<Smajor1995> yeah, what’s up?

<Grian> Pearl said you’re being clingy

<Smajor1995> oh

<Smajor1995> yeah, I’m fine. Had a pretty bad nightmare a few days ago. Guess it freaked me out more than I realized. 

The excuse would make you laugh if the circumstances were any different. It’s the same one that you’ve used over and over again. Normally, it’s enough to make people back off and stop asking questions. 

Not this time. 

<Grian> that’s fair. I did the same thing last time

<Grian> I wouldn’t let Scar out of my sight for a solid week after I woke up

You decide not to mention the way that you had panicked every time your communicator had buzzed with another death message. Or the way that you had rushed to his base so you could be there when he respawned. Or the crushing fear that he would wake up and his eyes would gleam red. 

Scott doesn’t respond for several minutes. You don’t blame him. 

<Smajor1995> why does no one else remember?

<Grian> I don’t know 

~~~

The two of you plan to meet up on a separate server. There’s so much to talk about, so much to piece through. Far too much to try and talk about through messages. 

And then season eight falls apart, and you’re never given the chance.

~~~~~ 

Soulmates. Soulmates. Who in their right mind thought that soulmates was a good idea. It’s ridiculous! 

And the fact that you’re partnered up with Scar, of all people? Really?!

Not that you don’t enjoy being around him. Quite the opposite, actually. 

That’s the part that scares you. 

Because you know yourself. You know that if you don’t shut him out completely you’ll latch on tight and never let go. 

Just like the desert. 

You can’t go through that again. You can’t.

He’s going to think that you hate him. 

That’s fine. It’s not like he’ll remember it.

~~~

You’re not surprised when Scott shows up at your door. You’re really not. The two of you still had to talk after all. 

There had been an unspoken agreement between you that you wouldn’t bring it up around the others. No use in inviting unwanted questions.   

What you are surprised by is the fact that he catches you as you’re sneaking out in the middle of the night. 

He tries to ask you what you’re doing. You make up something about needing some fresh air. 

It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe you. That’s fine. You don’t really need him to. 

You talk about nothing for a bit, both of you dancing around the subject. As if that’ll make it any easier to handle. 

In the end, he’s the one to bring it up first. 

“I sort of expected you to be a bit happier about all this.”

You furrow your brow in confusion. Happier? Why on earth would you be happy about this?

“Yknow, being paired up with Scar, considering…” he waves his hand vaguely. “Yknow.”

Oh. That’s what this is about. You can hear the light teasing in his voice, but you’re not exactly in the mood. 

“Right. Considering how I got to kill him with my own two hands, I’m absolutely thrilled.”

“… oh. Is that… is that what happened?”

“Yeah.” You don’t brother keeping the bitterness out of your voice. 

“Were you the last two left?”

You glare at him. He seems to realize how stupid of a question it is. 

“Right. Right, sorry. Um… have you tried talking to him about it?”

A startled laugh bursts free. “Talk to him? Really? Like how you’ve talked to Jimmy? Or Pearl?”

Scott flinches like he’s been hit. You try to bring yourself to care. 

But then you think of Pearl, abandoned and alone in her tower, and it doesn’t quite work. 

“I— that’s not—”

He’s stepping away. You’ve backed him into a corner. 

Good.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to take my walk now.”

He doesn’t try to stop you from walking away

~~~

Your ears are still ringing when you wake up. God. You hate wardens. You hate them so much. They’re big and loud and they smell.

You’re such an idiot. Bringing a warden to the surface? Really? That was your grand plan? In what world was that going to end well?

You’re glad that Scar isn’t going to remember what happened. He’d never let you live it down. 

Your communicator buzzes, drawing your attention. It’s a simple message, but reading it is enough to make your blood freeze in your veins. 

<Smajor1995> Pearl won

You’re out the door in an instant. 

Flying is never easy right after you wake up. It always takes you time to get re-accustomed to having working wings.

Last time, you had given yourself a few days to recover before you tried to fly, and even then you had made sure to practice on your own. 

You can’t afford to give yourself that same luxury this time. 

Because Pearl won and you had seen the way that she had unraveled in her tower on her own and oh god she’s going to remember that for the rest of time. 

Your landing isn’t particularly graceful. You can’t bring yourself to care. Not when Pearl remembers everything she went through. 

“Pearl? Pearl!!!” You bang your fist against the door. “Pearl if you don’t open the door in the next 10 seconds I’m coming in!!”

A few moments of silence. You hit the door again.  

Then she calls out—

“You really wanna take that risk?” 

“What?”

“That’s a closed door that opens inwards. You have no way of knowing what’s on the other side. You wanna take that risk?”

You desperately want to say that yes, of course you’ll take that risk. Of course you’ll walk through a shut door just so that you can make sure that she’s ok. 

The words die in your throat. 

She’s bluffing. You know that she’s bluffing. There’s no way that she would have had time to rig a trap. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that your hand freezes on the doorknob. 

Because what if she isn't lying? What if she’s telling the truth and there really is some horrific trap that’ll kill you the second you open the door?

Scar would never let you live it down if you get the both of you killed because you walked into a trap that you knew was there.

Except— no. Scar isn’t here. You’re not tied to him anymore. There’s no marks on your arm telling you how many lives you have left. 

You’re fine.

You push open the door.

There’s no explosion. No potion or lava dropping from the sky, not even a weapon swinging down at your head. 

There’s only Pearl. Clutching an axe and staring you down. She’s trembling.

Her eyes are narrowed in an expression that you’ve grown far too used to over the past few weeks. You have no doubt that she’ll cut you down with that axe the second that you so much as breathe in the wrong direction. 

You can’t bring yourself to care. Because her eyes are blue again and the frostbite that had covered her fingers and legs is gone and the bright red jacket that she had shielded herself with is gone and she’s ok. You don’t think before you launch yourself at her, enveloping her in a hug. 

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know full well how bad of an idea this is. You know full well just how easily she could cut open your stomach. 

The rest of you couldn’t care less. All that you care about is the fact that her cheeks are streaked with tears and you don’t want her to go through this alone. 

The axe falls to the ground. She wraps her arms around you. Her shoulders are trembling. 

Later, she will tell you the full story of how she won. She will tell you about how Scott had looked her in the eye and decided her fate for her. You will watch as her face will contort with rage as she realizes the extent of the curse Scott has placed upon her. 

You will watch as she storms out of the room, determined to find him and give him a piece of his mind.  

But that is later. And now is now. And right now the only thing that’s important is that you wrap her in your wings and hold her tight.

~~~~~ 

You try to take a different approach during the next game. You allow yourself to go along with the lighthearted jokes that Jimmy and Joel come up with.

It helps for a while. You manage to forget that you’re all going to kill each other eventually. You forget about the heavy weight of time pressing against your neck.

But all good things must come to an end. And all the laughter in the world isn’t quite enough to drown out Jimmy’s scream as he falls to his death.

It’s not quite enough to make you forget the way that Joel begs for just a few more minutes.

You don’t even get to see him die.

You wonder how long they’ll haunt your nightmares.

~~~

<Smajor1995> martyn won

<Smajor1995> ill talk to him

At least it’s not you this time.

~~~ 

The next time you see Martyn, you can see the weight of his victory upon his skin. His smile is sharper than it was before, his eyes are more cruel. 

You’re not surprised. It’s a change that you have seen before, and it’s a change you will see again. 

You try not to think about it too hard. 

~~~~~  

This sucks. This really sucks. You can’t remember the last time you felt so alone during one of these games. 

Well. You’re not technically alone, you have Etho and Cleo, but it feels… wrong. It’s like there’s a pane of glass between you and them. 

You suppose that’s what you get for joining so late. 

You should probably be grateful. It could always be worse. Scar is living proof of that. 

You can’t help but feel bad for him. 

It’s fine, you remind yourself, it’s fine.

It’s not like he’s going to remember. 

~~~

Thirty minutes. That’s how long you’re given to recover from the game. Thirty minutes.

Maybe even less. You don’t really know. 

But now your communicator is open and you can’t tear your eyes away from the message on it. 

<PearlescentMoon> scar won’t wake up

You can’t move. The world has frozen around you. Or perhaps nothing has changed. You don’t know. 

Your communicator buzzes again. 

<PearlescentMoon> hello?

<PearlescentMoon> please don’t tell me you’re also still asleep

<PearlescentMoon> I don’t think I can handle that right now 

<Grian> I’m awake

<Grian> on my way

~~~

You’ve never thought about what happens to you during the games. All you know is that you spend nearly two months killing all of your friends, and then you wake back up in your bed with no one else even aware that you were missing. 

Now, as you stare at Scar’s sleeping form, you really wish it had stayed that way. 

Pearl had explained what happened when you arrived. She had explained how Scar had won.

It’s a miracle you didn’t start crying. 

You don’t know where she is now. With Gem and Impulse maybe? They were the ones that had been looking for her. She had wanted to stay by Scars side, but you had encouraged her to go. You’d said something about how spending time with people who didn’t remember would be good for her.

You both ignore how obvious the lie is. 

She must have realized that you needed time to yourself. You can't help but be grateful she knows you so well.

You had broken down the moment she had left the room.

The games were bad. They were always bad. But the bad was supposed to be contained. It wasn’t supposed to affect things out here, you were supposed to be able to move on.

You’re not supposed to be sitting by your friend's side, unsure if he’s going to wake up. 

No. No he’s going to wake up. He has to wake up. 

You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t. 

~~~

Pearl’s back. She looks a little better now. 

That makes one of you at least.

~~~

“He’s going to hate me when he wakes up…” The admission cuts through the silence with ease. 

“What do you mean?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Try to figure out how on earth you’re going to explain this. 

“I… How much have I told you about third life?”

And for the first time in nearly three years, you tell someone about the desert. 

Pearl, to her credit, is a wonderful audience. She gives you her full attention, reacts in all the right places. She even teases you when your face turns red. 

It’s nice. Almost enough to make you pretend that you aren’t describing one of the worst things that happened to you. 

And then you reach the end. You tell her about the cactus ring. You tell her about the cliff.

“I didn’t think I was going to wake up…” you whisper. The realization sits heavy upon your heart. 

The games always did that. They made you believe that each final death was permanent, that each time you took a red life, you were ensuring that your friend would never open their eyes again. It didn’t matter how many times you had woken up on Hermitcraft afterwards or how much of the old games that you remembered. The guilt was always there. Always.

You don’t think any of the winners had expected to wake up after all was said and done.

But the difference between them and you is that their deaths were all caused by an outside force. Yours? Yours had been a choice.

You can see the moment that Pearl comes to that same realization. She looks like she’s going to cry. 

You keep talking. 

“But then I did and no one else remembered.” You force yourself to take a deep breath. “I had to look him in the eye and realize that I was the only one who remembered what we had been through.”

You can see the moment that the pieces click together in her head. 

“Oh…” She says softly, “That’s why, in double life, you…”

You think you might be crying too. “It was easier than losing him again.”

“He thought you were ashamed of him.”

“I know.” 

“He thought you hated him…” 

“I know…” 

There’s nothing else you can say.

~~~

Mumbo is looking for you. You don’t want to leave Scar. 

Pearl throws all your own arguments back in your face. She reminds you that you haven’t spoken to anyone since you woke up yesterday. You haven’t even gone outside.

Besides, you had agreed to not get anyone who hadn’t won involved. It was something you had agreed to when Pearl had first won. The last thing you wanted was for your friends to find out that they had killed each other over and over again. 

It seemed more important than ever to stick to it. 

If you ignore him he’ll probably come looking and you know that this will be one of the first places he checks and then you’ll have to explain why Scar is passed out and why you and Pearl have clearly been down here for the past day and… 

Ok fine. Maybe Pearl is right and going with him is definitely the right call. That doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it.

~~~

You don’t remember much from your time with Mumbo. You just remember checking your com every few minutes, trying to see if Pearl had messages you. 

He had threatened to take it from you if you kept checking it. You’re still not sure if he was joking or not. 

Not that it mattered. 

Scar is still asleep when you get back. 

~~~

Another day passes. He still hasn’t woken up. 

Pearl is the one who finally says what you’ve both been thinking. 

“We need to tell X.” 

You know. Logically, you know. One of the Hermits is in danger. He needs to know. He’d probably be able to actually do something, and then you wouldn’t just be sitting here doing nothing and being completely useless.

You really don’t want to. 

Because telling X means telling him about the games. Telling X means that Scar is actually in danger. Telling X means admitting that something is actually wrong. 

“One more day,” you say, “Give him one more day.” 

~~~

Pearl isn’t there when it happens. She isn’t there when Scar opens his eyes with a gasp. And she most certainly isn’t there to see you jump five feet in the air and have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from screaming. 

You want to launch yourself at him, to hold him tightly and make sure that he’s ok, but you force yourself to wait. You don’t know if it would make things worse. 

He’s staring up at the ceiling. You’re not sure if he’s even realized that you’re there. 

“Scar…?” You whisper gently.

Something is wrong. Something is deeply wrong. 

Winning the games was a curse. It left a mark on you. A piece of canvas torn away. 

You can always attempt to fix it, you can replace the fabric, attempt to remember what was over there, do your best to match the colors that once existed. 

With time, you might get close. You might even reach a point where an outside viewer would never be able to tell that a chunk had been violently ripped out. But the damage will always be there. It will forever be changed. 

You’re unsure if yours will ever come close to what it once was. You sometimes wonder if the people around you miss what it used to look like. 

When Scar turns his head towards you, you feel your breath freeze in your lungs.

There’s no damage in his painting. No canvas missing, no smeared colors, nothing. 

There’s nothing. It’s gone.

His gaze returns to the ceiling. He looks so tired.

“Now that’s just cruel…” 

Words get caught in your throat. How are you supposed to respond to that?

He takes a deep breath, pushes himself to a sitting position. 

He’s staring at you. You feel like you’re being studied. 

You force yourself not to squirm. 

“Scar?” 

“Hold on.” He holds up a hand. “I’m trying to decide if you’re real or not.”

“If I’m— what?”

“If you’re real. It’s gotten very hard to tell. Come here.”

He reaches out. You stumble forward. 

He grips your hand tightly. A finger presses against your pulse point.

He drops it. Pulls you down so that he can hold your face. Tears are starting to well up in his eyes. 

You don’t dare move away. 

His thumb presses into your cheek, right below your eye. 

“Your scar is gone…” 

You know which one he’s talking about. You had tripped over your own two feet while carrying supplies and hadn’t been able to catch yourself before slamming face first into the side of the mountain. Your cheek had been sliced by the exposed sandstone. 

Scar had still been yellow at the time. 

The wound itself had healed just fine, but it had scarred pretty badly. 

He used to trace it with his thumb and say you were a matching set. That the desert had claimed you as her own. 

“Yeah.” You lift your hand and gently place it on top of his. “It disappeared after 3rd life…”

It was the one scar you were truly upset about losing. 

“Oh…” he doesn’t move his hand. “I’m so used to seeing you with it.”

You… you really don’t want to think about the implications of that. 

“Is this real? Are you real?”

You can only nod in response. 

“You promise? I’m not going to wake back up in Trader Scars?”

“I promise.”

“Ok.” He takes a deep breath. “Ok…”

Later, after Pearl arrives and tears are exchanged, she will be the one to ask the question that you’ve been dreading. She will be the one to ask him how long it’s been. 

He will think about it for far too long before shrugging and saying something about how the sunflowers had started to wilt again, and your heart will plummet.

A year. What had been three days for you had been a year for him. 

And you had done nothing to get him back. 

~~~ 

Season nine comes to an end. You can’t help but feel a bit relieved when it does. 

There’s too many bad memories here. Too many memories of sleepless nights with Pearl and Scar as you all tried desperately to forget the hell that you’ve been cursed to remember. Too many memories of finding Pearl clutching a bucket of snow in her hands, of walking in on Scar talking to the open air. 

Season ten will be a breath of fresh air. A new start. 

~~~ 

Time passes. You get settled in the new world. Things get better for all three of you. According to the message that you’ve been getting from Martyn and Scott, things are getting better for them as well.

There comes a moment when you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had a nightmare. It’s a wonderful realization to have. 

You wonder if it’s over. If you’re finally free. It’s a kind thought. It feels warm. 

And then you’re pulled back in. 

~~~~~

Something is different this time. You can feel it from the second you wake up in that damned circle. 

The Universe must have grown tired of you. That’s the only explanation you can think of for why it’s decided to interfere so directly this time. 

You think you might hate it.

~~~

You manage to find Scar after things settle down a bit. He looks different. 

His posture is more relaxed, his shoulders less tense. He seems more comfortable here than he has in the past year on Hermitcraft. 

The realization makes you feel sick. 

You can’t let it happen again. 

You won’t let it happen again. 

~~~

You reach the end. One of the last two. 

There’s no ceremony this time. No fair fight, no pausing to burn the last few reminds of those you had killed. 

There is only you and Joel. 

And then you fall.

And only Joel is left.

~~~

He tells you that there was no celebration when he won. That there was no one there to cheer his name as he had knocked you off the tree. No one to join him in his victory lap. 

He stares at you, demanding to know where all the other winners are. They all remember, right? Why on earth aren’t they here to congratulate him?

You shrug and attempt to explain that winning has never been something to celebrate. That it’s always been a more solemn achievement.

He tells you that you’re being stupid. That acting miserable about it only makes you feel worse. You won, didn’t you? You might as well act like it. 

And for the first time, the thought of winning the games doesn’t weigh quite as heavy on your soul.

[riddlerosehearts]

i'm honestly not really into gacha games, just twst and a3! act addict actors--the game i was referring to in my tags. but a3 has... so many cards for every character. if you want an example of just how many, take a look at this page for my favorite character--and then also take note of the fact the a3 wiki, for various reasons, isn't even fully up to date and doesn't actually have every card on it! and to be completely fair, a3 just had its eighth anniversary while twst is only about to have its 5th, but the difference is still massive.

a3 is no longer available outside of japan so i exclusively keep up with it through fan translations and such, but it keeps getting new cards all the time. events are much more frequent than in twst and regular scouts with themed cards that have nothing to do with any event are... well, a frequent thing, which twst doesn't even really have--there's the clubwear cards, but those drop so infrequently that i got into twst two whole years ago, and i believe the pop music club and basketball club (except for floyd, iirc) already had all their cards released back then. and yet two years later we still have to wait for the equestrian club, the board game club, and the film research club and i'm getting a little tired of waiting for them at this point tbh especially since my top 3 favorite characters are in those clubs 😭

getting cards based on things that happened in the main story isn't really something twst did until book 7 either, unless you count how ortho got a school uniform R card when he became an official student at the end of book 6! and even then we're only getting cards for a few characters and not for all of these other cool alternate outfits. halloween-exclusive characters and staff members getting cards is a pretty new thing as well. and twst just... doesn't even have big events all that often, really. a3 has so many events, each one with decently lengthy multi-chapter stories, that i have to keep a spreadsheet in order to track which ones i've read, and just looking at my spreadsheet i see that they usually have events every couple weeks or so and never really go a single month without one. in 2024, twst JP had: sam's new year sale in january, master chef with jack and vil from the end of jan to the start of february, the crowley magical assault practice thing from late feb to march 1st, the fourth anniversary event in march, tapis rouge in april, master chef with azul and ortho from late april to early may, the third tsum event from late may to mid june, magical assault practice with crewel from late june to early july, a unified exam event in august, nothing in september except reruns and birthday scouts, the lost in the book with nightmare before christmas event from october 1st to mid november, and then, like, a holiday gift campaign in december.

many of these are very small events with short stories or barely any story at all (master chef/culinary crucible events have almost nothing to them, especially if you don't get the cards and read the vignettes, and anniversary events are extremely short) and i'm honestly not really familiar with the magical practice assault events but as far as i know they don't have stories attached to them at all. each of these events do have at least one card for them, though! whereas unified exam events let you unlock voice lines from the staff members but they don't have event stories or cards. neither do the winter holiday gift campaigns. so yeah, twst just doesn't really get new cards or events all that often. i believe the character with the most cards is jamil, at 22 cards, but if you exclude the birthday cards that number goes down to 17.

i don't think twst should have nearly as many cards as a3, or whichever other game you came from, because twst has very high quality art that i'm sure they wouldn't be able to have if they were releasing so many cards all the time. but i do wish it had actual important events with decent-length stories a little more frequently, that it would occasionally just drop some cool cards without there having to be an event (like the clubwear cards, but, you know, more of them), that R cards had groovies so it wouldn't feel so disappointing if your fave is in an event as an R card, and also that every card had a vignette...

anyway the fact that we don't have a card where riddle looks like this is just... wrong. deeply upsetting. an affront to me personally. i only just found out this concept art existed 5 minutes ago but now i'll forever be dreaming of the power that he could have. how unbelievably hard he could slay.

[lonely-night]

so... next year is internship for 18 weeks, if I:

move to a new place

pros:

less housemates (max 5, most working adults)

near train station, 2 stops to reach working place

save time

cons:

expensive rental (its like 80% of my already low intern paycheck lmao)

stay at the current student house

pros:

cheap rent

cons:

ass housemates (currently all males, and they are so fucking unhygienic)

ass landlords

far far faaaaaaaaaar away from workplace (have to get out the house 2 hours before exact clock in time because of traffic)

wasting time on traffic

[al-luviec]

something simple to try to get out of art block (it didn't work)

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

When Superboy Prime accidentally resurrected Jason Todd, it was described something like the universe righting itself. And, from a purely physical point of view, Jason never died. It brought his body back to it's state before his death, his injuries there but with just enough he could still survive

So, now I'm imagining like. What if there was an au where it was more than Jason just physically "never dying," but it affected memories of those around as well

Joker not remembering killing him, Dick not remembering hearing the news, Batman and Gotham not remembering the 6 months between Jason's death and resurrection, but not thinking much if it

Its all as if Jason never died

[elizabethrobertajones]

Yeah right, liar.

........... CYLVA. WHY. You can't just say these things to Jane when she has NO IDEA THE LORE BOMB YOU ARE GOING TO DROP ON HER.

Quite literally, I think :P

Unrelated but she absolutely ate this camera angle

anyway remember when I said that Jane joining the Scions was a terrible idea because she would become Completely Hydaelyn Pilled and turn it into a weird cult thing if no one else was going to do it for her?

I feel like this is the exact level of fanaticism that meets that freak :P Granted, Cylva is manipulating the Warrior of Light generation machine for the sake of causing a calamity, with the Most Manipulated Pawns In The Universe who are only on step one or two of like 6 in this chess game. But the stuff she's saying is 100% something Jane would believe and agree with XD Like yeah actually we SHOULD dedicate ourselves to Hydaelyn by following a regeime of self-sacrifice and toppling evil in a semi-gamified and marketable plan to increase your Mothercrystal Rankings -

I know you're being dramatic and also want that but that's 100% the angle of the cat in the picture with all the knives pointing at it and the cat is so so smug and somehow exactly where it wants to be :3

^ pictured holding back saying the name that would trigger a second Echo flashback in a row and force Jane to realise exactly why Cyella has been scowling at her all month and spilling every other drink she ordered onto her head.

(Jane thought she was like. Maybe a former guard, wounded in battle and kept around as a barmaid out of pity even though her arms were shaky, and Jane was being ever so forebearing with this treatment and didn't even go complain to Glynard even though she really wanted to)

"Like you, I'm from the Thirteenth."

"What!? I'm not a demon, despite the scythe I carry! I come from the Source?! I was born in Ishgard!"

Cyella's eyes widened, and for a moment her furious composure, seething with self-loathing almost as visceral as the shadows that had framed her in the memory, faltered. "You - you're not?"

"I'm not!" Jane protested, dazed with the sideways blow to her sense of self that had come out of nowhere as she processed the tale of the Shadowkeeper in her own voice. "Why would you even say that? Unukalhai said he had no idea what Elidibus knew about me so why do you know any different?"

Cyella paused, glanced away as if through the veil to worlds long lost. "He lied to you, then."

"Why would he do that? I asked him not to!" Jane all but stomped her foot in its pointy-toed boot.

The pity that flashed across Cyella's face was exhausted, deeply ingrained. She looked Jane up and down slowly, brow furrowed - "Your avatar. Of course. Give me your - whatever focus binds you two together."

Jane reached for her job stone, but only clutched it tight in her fist, gripped with a deep horror of the answers she'd been hunting ever since waking in Fallgourd Float. "Why?"

"Did you not feel a thing when you made that pact?" Cyella was looking flummoxed now, her sword arm dropped to her side, her head shaking slowly, mouth slightly open and corners nagging down.

"I don't know, I was trying to figure out what was up with all the voidsent following me so I talked to Drusilla and she gave me this stone, but then I got called away to the First before I could figure any of it out? And then I started absorbing Lightwardens and everything gets a bit blurry and strange from there? I - I hadn't thought about it since."

Cyella rubbed her forehead. "Are you serious. Across all lifetimes and worlds, even when you can accomplish all this and you're still - " She held her hand out more insistently. Terrified more of her than the truth suddenly, Jane dropped the soul stone into her palm.

"Janey," Cyella said, to the stone. "What happened to you now?"

The avatar poured forth from the stone in a rush of shadow, pooling at Cyella's feet before rising in a pillar to a hooded figure carrying a scythe; a young woman who looked startlingly like Jane. But a few inches taller.

She looked from Jane, to Cyella, to Jane again, then back to Cyella. "Do you know how long I was trapped as a mere grub crawling in the slime of the shattered world?" she demanded in a scratchy, hollow voice. "Trapped in the rift alone while you broke free and left me to rot?" she added, in a screech that somehow sounded like another's voice entirely. "Ten thousand years severed and you lived as a king!?" both sides of her voice screamed.

Cyella wafted a hand through Janey like she was smoke, and the avatar dispersed, sucking back into the stone. For a long time, the two of them stared at the object gently shaking in her gloved palm; whether from the contained rage, or Cyella's own trembling.

"She seemed angry," Jane said, after a while.

"She ran off with some ascian and doomed our world, then had the gall to come crawling back to me when the Flood of Darkness came. Of course I kicked her away. What a bitch." Cyella threw the stone to Jane, who fumbled and barely caught it. "Well, you did me no harm, you poor mangled thing. Maybe you'd even be better if you'd never met her. I'm sorry I blamed you for what she did, for what it's worth. It seems the little leech climbed into your soul somewhere along the way and was simply biding her time playing at being your avatar until she could put herself back together."

"But I only picked up this job a day before I came to the First?"

"Something has been wrong with you for a while, though, hasn't it? I see - in your memories - falling through the dark. Moments before you're dashed to pieces on the rocks below your precious city, a rift opens, and something pulls you in. And I can see what you did not, thanks to the Echo. Elidibus was the one who caught you. Who saved your life only to feed you to that thing. All your magic, all that sorcery you've been able to command since? That's Janey, feasting on your aether and giving back just enough to make you feel special."

"Um... did you know her?"

Cyella buried her face in her hands for a moment.

After swallowing back several replies, she looked at Jane again with contemptuous pity. "I thought I did. What you have there, though... Flakey and useless as she was, is not even the Janey who let Igeyorhm walk all over her until our world was consumed by shadows. The last time I saw her, she was clawing her way into a rift to hide from the Flood, and I'm not ashamed to admit, I tried to stop her. To make her look, just once! at what she had done, and own up to something."

She sighed in disgust. "I don't regret watching her torn in twain, one half swallowed by the rift, the other twisted and mutated into a voidsent before my eyes. It's your bad luck you seem to be the perfect vessel for her to attempt to sew those parts back together. I'd advise not letting them."

"Oh... But... I'm actually pretty good at the art of the Reaper."

"Are all of you as stupid as each other? No, don't answer that. Just. Don't encourage her. Seek help. Be better than her - more like Ardbert. I know you can be, at least sometimes. Stop her from ruining everything all the time!"

"Um. Sorry about your big Shadowkeeper moment. Do you - do you want to keep doing this? It seemed important."

Cyella huffed and made another gesture like she wished she could waft Jane away as easily as she'd banished the voidsent Janey. "Let's get this over with. I don't even care." She looked out over the purple woodland below them. "Although, I have to say, I had learned a lot from Janey and Igeyorhm about how easy it would be to lead the First's heroes into a trap to flood their world, just as blindly as she had done, and thinking they were heroes every step of the way."

She took another, long, moment to compose herself, then resumed her tale.

And at the end of it, her plea rang hollow and empty; Jane bursting into tears as soon as Cyella begged her for death; her scythe remaining firmly sheathed, frozen by the horror of letting Cylva down again.

"Oh, hello! I'm Jane!"

"... of course you are."

[icewindandboringhorror]

sneepy cozy time....

[macchiatosdumptruck]

.

[deoidesign]

just to inquire, what’s your favorite thing you sell in your shop?

i love your comic!

Oh thank you!

And my favorite thing... That's hard to answer haha

I like selling prints because I get to use my nice printer (which I love to do) and I especially love selling custom panel prints, because then I get to see people's favorite panels from my comic, which is double nice...

The most fun items to pack are the merch bundles which are themed with my books, I LOVE coming up with packaging design like this so much...

But my favorite design has gotta be one of these... Probably the patch, there.

It's really hard for me to pick!

I actually genuinely just am really passionate about product design and merch themeing, it's not only extremely fun for me but it also just really engages my brain. I love coming up with items that fit a theme, and there's no theme I love more than my own comics haha

So there's not much I could enjoy more! That's why I chose to do a merch club on patreon, it lets me get out my merch-y feelings but without overloading my storefront... Plus it's just really fun for me! I get to experiment, make little packages, and enjoy making new things.

Thank you for asking!

[ianthesmells]

the got damn construction in my house has fucking woken me up Again. we’ve been in this new house for a fucking month now and we STILL have no furniture. theres no flooring anymore in the living room and all the wallpaper has been torn down and thats it. its like, what the fuck is all this noise about. theyre still supposed to replace the flooring for the house, tile some of the kitchen, de-popcorn the ceilings, paint the whole thing and put the furniture in because my mom has insisted we redo allllll of the house and just go without furniture anyways. and it pisses me off too cause i COULD have been with my ex spending time with ex during a trip i literally already paid for and was so excited about but instead i gotta sit in the Construction Zone which is loud af and get no fucking sleep instead.. fuckkkk i hate her i hate this i hate myself i hate my life and i hope i die

[narcsmelly]

hilarious that the silent hill movie literally served as nightmare fuel for my entire childhood