#are people actually getting their vinyls or was that fake

[brandnewdress]

this reminds me of when I got my 1989 CD like 2 days early but I was determined to wait and listen to it with everyone else and then I overslept and missed the release anyway

[bamsara]

Hello! I was wondering what company you use for your sticker sheets? I bough one from your Ko-Fi shop and really like the quality, and the pricing you were able to sell at is waaaaaay more reasonable compared to any of the companies I've seen and used myself. Is it a POD company, or a mass purchase of them to sell on your own?

Thank you for your time if you're able to respond!

I'm really glad you like the quality, because I actually make them by hand at home! (Please forgive the lighting, my bedroom is my office lmao.)

I don't use a company (and Idk what a POD company is sorry!) but making them at home gives a lot more freedom of stock, just be wary it can be very time consuming depending on how many you need to make.

I've had other people ask before, so here's a rundown of how I make my stickers at home: At most you'll need:

Printer

Sticker paper (this is the type that I use)

Laminator and lamination paper (the lamination paper that I use.) You can also use adhesive non-heat lamination paper if you don't have a laminator, gives you the same result, just be careful of bubbles. You will get double your worth out of a pack because we are splitting the pouches to cover two sticker sheets.

Your choice of a sticker cutting machine or just using scissors.

First, I use Cricut's software to print out the sticker sheet with the guidelines around the corners so the machine can read it. If you do NOT have a Cricut machine, open up your art program, make a canvas of 2550x3300 and fill it up with your sticker design with some cutting space between them. This the 8.5x11 size for the sticker page.

I usually have bleed selected so the cut comes out cleaner. Tip for non-Cricut users below: Increase the border around your sticker design to fake the 'bleed' effect for a cleaner cut.

These are the print settings I use for my printer. I use the 'use system dialogue' to make sure I can adjust the settings otherwise it prints out low quality by default. Make sure if you're using the above paper that you have 'matte' selected, and 'best quality' selected, these aren't usually selected by default.

So you have your sticker sheet printed! Next is the lamination part. I use a hot laminator that was gifted to me, but there is no-heat types of lamination you can peel and stick on yourself if that's not an option.

(This is for protection and makes the colors pop, but if you prefer your stickers matte, you can skip to the cutting process.)

Important for Cricut users or those planning to get a Cricut: You're going to cut the lamination page to cover the stickers while also not covering the guidelines in the corners. First, take your lamination page and lay it over the sheet, take marker/pen and mark were the edges of your stickers are, and cut off the excess:

(I save the scrap to use for smaller stickers or bonuses later on)

After you've cut out your lamination rectangle, separate the two layers and lay one down on your sticker sheet over your stickers with matte side down, shiny side up. (Save the other sheet for another sticker page)

The gloss of the lamination will prevent the machine from reading the guidelines, so be careful not to lay it over them. It also helps to cut the corners afterwards to prevent accidentally interfering with the guidelines.

Now put that bad boy in the laminator! (Or self seal if you are using non-heat adhesive lamination)

Congrats! You now have a laminated page full of stickers.

For non-cricut/folks cutting them out by hand: this is the part where you start going ham on the page with scisscors. Have fun~

Cutting machine: I put the page on a cutting mat and keep it aligned in the corner, and feed it into the machine. For laminated pages I go between 'cardstock' and 'poster board' so that it cuts all the way through without any issues, but for non-laminated pages or thinner pages, I stick for 'vinyl' and 'light card stock'. Kinda test around.

Now I smash that go button:

You have a sticker now!

The pros of making stickers at home is that you save some cost, and you have more control of your stock and how soon you can make new designs. (I can't really afford to factory produce my stickers anyway)

However, this can be a very time consuming, tedious process especially if you have to make a lot of them. There is also a LOT chance for some errors (misprints, miscuts, lamination bubbles, ect) that will leave you with B-grade or otherwise not-so-perfect or damaged stickers. (Little note, if you have page mess up in printing and can't be fed into the cricut machine, you can still laminate it and cut it out by hand too.)

I have to do a lot of sticker cutting by hand, so if you don't have a cricut don't stress too much about it. I have an entire drawer filled to the top of miscuts/misprints. I keep them because I don't want to be wasteful, so maybe one day they'll find another home. Sucks for my hand though.

But yeah! This is how I make my stickers at home! Hope this is helpful to anyone curious

[hearts4golbach]

Get the Angles Right!

chapter 3.

pairing:

Johnnie Guilbert x Fem!Reader.

warnings:

none

"Well, good morning, Johnnie." You locked your apartment door. "How was the meeting?"

"long and really fucking boring, obviously." he smiled at you. "How'd you sleep?"

you pressed the button on the elevator. "I couldn't. my mind was flooded with ideas for you. it was crazy. I filled up a third of my notebook."

"I can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing." Johnnie laughed.

"I think it's good. who need sleep, anyway?" You smirked, shooting him a wink before stepping out of the elevator. "The first place I wanna show you is right up the street."

"Okay," he hummed as he walked next to you. "Despite all of the nasty shit, New York is really pretty."

"Yeah," you agreed. "I like the aesthetic of it all. it makes me feel more professional, like I'm in a movie. it's good motivation, sometimes."

"I'll have to come back and visit again."

in all honesty, you had forgotten he didn't live here in the first place. your heart ached. you looked away from him as you recollected yourself. "Yeah, you should." You shot him a fake smile and turned your head back towards the path.

you paused before speaking again. "My dream is to open my own store, some day." You looked at the vacant building across the street. "I mean, I'd make less singled out designs. some shit that anyone can walk in and buy, you know?"

he followed your gaze to the building across the street. "What would you name it?"

"probably something a lot cooler than L/n Designs, but you know. I may be creative with fabrics, but not with names." You sighed and laughed at yourself. "Maybe my boring name is why my clothes don't catch people's attention."

he shrugged. "I mean, I don't know jack shit about fashion or the fashion industry, but I'm sure it just takes time like everything else."

"You're right. It does." You took a step closer to him. "You're pretty fashionable for someone who apparently knows nothing about it."

"I kind of just throw together whatever is in my closet." he laughed. "I've been dressing like this since middle school, y/n."

"Me too! I mean, whenever I go out I'm dressed up but 90% of the clothes I wear are pajamas." You pointed towards the shop coming up. "This is it."

"Wait, what even is it? you never told me where we're going." Johnnie squinted in an attempt to read the sign.

"Wow, you put a lot of trust into me. it's a record store. not one of those big corporate shits that only sell today's top pop record vinyls, but you'll see." You cut yourself off, not wanting to spoil it.

he opened the door for you. you thanked him and walked in. "The quote unquote emo section is my favorite. whenever I actually want to buy a record, I always find one of my favorite albums. I'm not sure if everything in this section is actually emo, but, yeah."

you flicked through the selection, finding the 'Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge' album that comes with a red record.

"Oh, shit." Johnnie mumbled as you pulled it out of the selection.

"i know! I'd blast this shit whenever I was younger. to be fair, I still do." you laughed. "I'll have to come back and snag this one in my free time. I don't want to carry it around all day."

Johnnie began looking through the next part of that section. "damn, I really fucking underestimated this place." he pulled out the album 'Pretty. Odd.' by Panic! at the Disco. it was just a normal, black record.

"I love panic! I've never seen pretty odd here before." he handed it to you, and you flipped it towards the back.

he looked at you with a soft smile. he admired your excited facial expression. "yeah, me too." he said softly.

you looked back at him. the eye contact lasted what felt like hours, and it was electric. you shook your head softly. "Uh, yeah. they also have shit like vintage concert posters and tee shirts. of course, they're all expensive as fuck so I've never gone out of my way to get them. they're cool to look at, though."

Johnnie followed you to the back of the store. his eyes were wide as he looked over the countless posters that were hanging on the wall, each one overlapping another. "how does someone even get all of this shit?"

"I don't know, donations or people sell them, I guess." you shrugged.

the twi of you walked around towards the alternative pop section. you and Johnnie reached at the same time. your hand fell on top of his. you hesitated before pulling it away. "God, how many times are we going to do that?" You joked.

he shrugged, his face red. "it's whatever, I don't really mind."

you tried to hide your smile. "Me, either." You flipped through the first few. "Look, melanie martinez. do you know her?" You asked, handing him the 'Cry Baby' album with a baby pink and blue record.

"I've heard of her, yeah. I've never really listened to her, though." he looked at the back. "these song names are sick as fuck, though."

"you should check her out," you mention, putting the record back in its place.

you two left the store. "There's this small cafe across the street. if you're interested, we can stop and get coffee or something. it's on me this time, by the way."

"Yeah, let's go." he smiled

you pressed the button for the crosswalk. the light changed, signaling you to go. you began to step forward before Johnnie grabbed your arm and pulled you back. you watched in shock as a car whipped past you.

"fuck, don't scare me like that, y/n. i can't have you getting hit by a car right in fucking front of me." his hand stayed rested on your arm.

you turned around to look at him. "im sorry. maybe I should pay more attention." You laughed nervously.

"Don't worry about it, just glad you're okay." his hand slid down your arm and gripped your hand. he shook it gently before dropping it.

you carefully crossed the street with Johnnie glued to your side.

whenever you reached the cafe, he held the door open for you. "Thank you. apparently, this place is family owned and shit. it's really good, I go here all the time. I usually get a mocha frappuccino and a croissant. what do you want?"

he walked up to stand beside you and scanned over the menu. "Hot chocolate?"

you hummed, "I've never had it here before. Do you want a croissant, too?"

he nodded. "Yeah, sure."

you instructed him to go pick a seat, and you would order. he walked off, and you walked up to the counter.

"Hi! what can I get started for you?" The woman had a cheerful smile. she was older, probably in her late 50s.

"Can I get two croissants, a hot chocolate, and a mocha frap? both medium, please." You smiled back as you pulled out your card.

"Yes, ma'am. your total is on the screen, swipe whenever you're ready."

you paid the bill. she took your name for the order, and you went back to sit with Johnnie.

"everyone seems really fucking nice here." he mentioned. he looked away from the window to make eye contact with you.

you shrugged. "more or less. it depends where you go. that's why I have my signature spots." You smiled and sat at the seat across from him. "Is everyone a dick in LA or something?"

he shrugged. "People don't really interact with each other, to be honest. but not everyone is like that. it just feels like it's rare to find someone who is actually nice."

"Maybe you're just looking at it the wrong way. everyone is nice in their own way of showing it, or at least that's what my mother used to tell me." you explained. "I always try to see the good in people."

his bright blue eyes were excentuated by the sun. "that's actually a really fucking good way to look at it. damn, I never thought about that."

you shrugged. the woman called your name, and you went to go grab your order. it was on a small tray, which made it easier to carry everything.

you passed Johnnie his hot chocolate and croissant, then took your own. he took a sip of his hot chocolate. the taste made him raise his eyebrows. "this is actually really good. wanna try?"

"yeah, wanna try mine?"

you traded drink and took a sip of eachothers. the hot chocolate was really good.

[stxrr-strxckk]

Something I noticed about I Saw the TV Glow that I haven't seen anybody mention yet

I saw this movie in theaters back in early may when it was released (Twice!), and it's been lingering in my head ever since then. Something I noticed on my second watch through: When Owen (and the audience) first see the Pink Opaque, we see Tara and Isabel in this sort of 90s nostalgia light, and I always thought they looked quite similar to Maddy and Owen. For example: Here is Owen and Isabel next to each other for reference.

While it's not entirely the same (Owen has softer features and is warmer toned, Isabel is more sharp and cool toned), they do look like they'd at least be related, cousins at least?

Same with Maddy and Tara, though not as much. (They looked more similar after Maddy's haircut, but I'm too lazy to change the photo)

But then, at the end when Owen is rewatching Pink Opaque? It's completely different. That nostalgic effect is gone and all of a sudden Tara is nowhere to be seen (Since Maddy left the world they were trapped in), and Isabel is completely different. Instead of being the confident, strong, WOC we see her as originally, she's just the same boring white protagonist of every little girl's show we grew up on.

And of course Owen is panicking, realizing that he lost his chance: He buried Isabel; she's dead underground, without her heart and instead of being who he truly is where he truly belongs, he's just... Owen. Stuck in suburbia, living the hell of being a queer kid growing up in the suburbs. Except now, he's an adult living a lie, knowing what he could have had is gone and he's stuck.

And another thing: I think the choice of the fun zone being where Owen works is deliberate. Sure, they could have kept him at the theater, but the theater shutting down is not only accurate (sad but true- please support your local movie theaters!) but shows how everyone is moving on from that experience of going to see a movie (and also from the joy of childhood and into adulthood while Owen is still stuck that awkward teenager!) in person- choosing streaming instead.

And we also notice this change in the Pink Opaque when Owen is watching it streaming. This is a reflection of how media felt more special growing up when it was in a physical form. Cds, vinyl, Dvds, casettes, film reels, even game cartridges, we've always had some physical object that bonds us to the worlds of creativity in which artists express themselves. And whether you've noticed or not, it's a special sort of feeling that just... Dies with streaming. Its like you own a piece of the media. Like saying: "This is mine, it's my personal piece of media that belongs to me and only me." and that's always made it feel special. Sure, there may be multiple copies, but this one belongs just to you. Not to mention the ritual of actually putting in cds, dvds, casettes into a player, or playing vinyl on a record player. There's this action you have to take to consume this media that's familiar and sort of gets you to anticipate what you're about to watch (much like Owen and Maddy's ritual of Maddy taping the show then leaving them around school for Owen to find) whereas now, you're just on a streaming service that lots of people own, and you're just mindlessly scrolling through hundreds of options.

Another thing: What do we see when Owen cuts his chest open in the final few minutes? TV static. Like when a tape finishes and you don't take it out of the player. His tape is over, Isabel is dead, and all that's left is the static of his fake life as he slowly rots in this husk. Now with streaming, you don't get that static. His connection with the Pink Opaque stems from his friendship with Maddy, the nostalgia of his favorite childhood show, and of course: his own queerness.

It's no secret this movie is about growing up queer and feeling like something is wrong. Like some part of you missing, the part that makes you normal. I've seen many reviews on IMDB that clearly missed the point, so I really want to spell it out here: THIS IS A MOVIE ABOUT QUEER PEOPLE FOR QUEER PEOPLE. And I've never seen a movie so perfectly encapsulate that feeling more than this one.

From my experience as a queer POC growing up with little to no representation I know this feeling all too well of seeing someone and realizing: "Wow, that's me." And projecting who I wanted to be onto that person. Even though they're not queer, they're not a poc, they're just a character. We try so hard to make them into who we want to be that the image of this character becomes so distorted you barely recognize them. Then, later revisiting that media to realize that a: you've become them, your true self, or b, in Owen's case: that you've buried that person alive and barely recognize yourself now.

It's really such a unique experience that I've never been able to put into words before. These scenes gave me such a visceral feeling and I almost cried in the theater. The scene of Owen in Isabel's dress is just the cherry on top. I myself am lucky enough to not need to transition and growing up I didn't feel as much dysphoria as my other trans friends, but this reminds me of a good friend of mine who used to dress in heels, makeup, skirts, and dresses to try and lessen the dysphoria she felt growing up in the wrong body.

I also love how the movie shows being queer in school.

Like how Maddy asks Owen if he likes girls or boys, and he replies with: "I think I like TV shows."

Avoiding the question because you either don't know the answer, or are so afraid you're gonna get bullied even more for being who you are.

Growing up, there weren't many queer kids in my school. So when we found each other, we stuck together. But for most of school, we were alone. No groups, not many friends, no space at the lunch table for us.

And seeing Owen, I just felt this connection to him almost immediately. Alone, not part of any group, until he finally finds Maddy. They don't have anything in common except the show, which is really the only reason they're friends, but it keeps them together, They're bonded.

For me, I see this as finding another queer kid in a mostly straight school. You may not have much in common, but that identity means you two will stick together, no matter what.

TLDR: I love isttvg, it makes me cry, everyone is gay and fuck imdb.

[laneydays]

ghost boy headcanons

______________

billy showalter

adults and old people LOVE him. take him to meet ur parents, do it

but also hes the type to act way different with ppl his age than adults

kind of a smart mouth.... but in a cool kind of annoying way

twirls his hair a lot LMAO

crosses his arms when he's upset mad sad or annoyed

loves coca cola and root beer

adores dogs, his dog is his best friend

extremely supportive of queer identities even if he isnt queer himself

love language is acts of service

just loves to be helpful

feels bad if people do stuff for him though

griffin stagg

autistic 

is lowkey a menace sometimes

but also a sweetheart

he likes weird unexpected shit for someone his age

incredibly smart but doesn't rlly know that

great at art

doesnt curse a whole bunch but when he does he curses like a sailor and he does it good

doesnt know how to match his clothes for the life of him

wears bandanas to pull his hair back, gets made fun of and called a girl for it

everyone just wants to kiss and hold him like a little kid, he doesn't understand it

doesn't like when people baby him

love language is gift giving, probably picks up random shit to give to you

"here have this rock" "i got a pretty flower for you" "i found a cola bottle cap"

you keep them all

vance hopper

adhd probably 

pinball hyperfixation need i say more

he's actually pretty chill when hes not angry. if u don't bother him he's real quiet

aromatic and asexual. no he wouldn't be a player

but also is open to meeting someone, whether its platonic or romantic (remember aroace people can still date)

tries to act tough but hes just a big nerd tbh

smoked a cig once. never again, hated it

gets very mad at people when they make fun of his choker, he gets embarrassed 

acts homophobic but he really doesnt care

would probably beat someone up if they made fun of a queer kid

that doesnt stop him from saying "thats gay" as a (joking) insult however

doesn't really have a specific love language, just anything to show you care he appreciates it quietly

not big on physical touch but he doesn't mind it 

collects vinyls

wears a looot of denim

finney blake

also autistic

space special interest

kind of good at drawing

literally wouldn't hurt a fly

his jokes are so unfunny that its funny

sounds like an angel when he laughs and looks like one when he smiles

and its hard to get a smile out of him

carries that little spaceship with him everywhere, freaks out if he can't find it

cant think of anything else for him

doesn't have a specific love language either, just anything to show that u care

bruce yamada

bro is not as good in school as everyone thinks he is

but tries very hard and does his best

really loves history

i feel like this is obvious but he collects baseball cards

flexes them on you every time you come to his house and it gets a little annoying 

is the nice guy of the friend group

probably the corniest person ever

is pretty funny but when he tries to be funny it doesn't work

love language is quality time definitely

also physical touch, just the little things though like touching shoulders or brushing fingers

robin arellano

wears his bandana literally every day and it smells so bad

says its to keep the hair out of his face

bro is gorgeous without it

his wardrobe is 70% sleeveless shirts

a huge showoff and a sucker for praise

laughs at potty jokes every single time

his humor is fake flirting

very protective but he isn't scary at all

fucks up the school lunch like its his last meal

probably complains about it though

can talk to literally anyone and everyone, its really nice

he's.... not great in school but he tries to be nice to the teachers

passes notes in class 24/7 and he gets in trouble so much for it

canon movie fanatic, loves watching them even if they suck

______________

[lemoncrushh]

Seven Six Five - Part Three

Summary: They met once seven years ago. Now music has made them cross paths again.

Warnings: smut, body image issues, angst. 18+ ONLY!

A/N: Enemies to Lovers. This was originally written and posted in 2020, right before the pandemic, so the story takes place then with flashbacks of 2013. Harry Styles x Plus Size OC, written in third person.

Part Three Word Count: 3.5k+

STORY PAGE

27 February, 2020 - New York, NY, USA

Bronwyn had tossed and turned all night. After returning home from her meeting with Harry, she’d started feeling a pang in her gut. She’d worried that perhaps she had been a little hard on him, and maybe even downright cruel. She’d thought about the look in his eyes when he’d asked her about that night, and how he’d sincerely sounded clueless. Perhaps she’d had it all wrong, or maybe he’d just been a different person then, seven years ago. People do grow, in fact. And maybe...just maybe, he’d been looking for a way to apologise.

When she’d sat at her computer with a glass of wine, hoping to distract her mind and get some work done, she’d soon found the attempt futile. Instead, she’d opened the website where her article was published. She reread it, looking at the photos she’d taken and scanning through the comments. They were all positive, many true, die-hard fans giving their thanks and input. A few were also from newer fans, people who’d only recently discovered him and kicked themselves for not listening to him sooner.

Nobody called him fake. Nobody said he was a phony. It was all just the opposite. Everyone honestly adored him, and called him things like “genuine”, “a class act” and “the kind of man I hope my son turns out to be.”

Setting her laptop aside, Bronwyn walked to her tiny kitchen table where she’d left the tote bag Harry had given her. Slipping her hand inside, she pulled out the vinyl record and unwrapped the cellophane. Surprised to find it was a gatefold, she examined the fish-eye photos on the cover and the inside. When she pulled the record out of the sleeve, something else fell out and onto the floor. Picking it up, Bronwyn saw that it was a folded poster which she quickly opened, letting out a cackle.

“Oh my God, you’ve got to be joking!” she exclaimed, looking at the photos on either side.

Shaking her head, she placed the record on her turntable and dropped the needle. She recognised the intro to the first song, having listened to it a handful of times that weekend on Spotify. By the middle of the song, she found herself singing along to the lyrics. Then sitting down on the sofa, she inspected the poster again, the side where Harry was laid out on the floor...naked.

“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered to herself.

She realised nothing was really showing. It was a tasteful pose, and his hand and thigh were covering his unmentionables. It was art, and she could respect that. But she didn’t like the way it made her feel.

Or maybe she did.

Folding the poster back up, Bronwyn slipped it back into the album sleeve and grabbed her glass of wine.

Perhaps it had been the chardonnay, or maybe the half a dozen listens to Harry’s album that had kept her awake most of the night. But nevertheless, Bronwyn was determined to do some actual work when she finally got out of bed and brushed her teeth. No thinking of Harry Styles today, nor her history with him. No listening to his music. His album was tucked away in her vinyl collection, along with that ridiculously enticing poster…

It was mid-afternoon when Bronwyn finally showered. After getting loads of work done - thanks to the promise she’d kept to herself - including some housework such as cleaning her bathroom, dusting and watering her plants, she took a nice, long, steaming shower. Slipping into a striped tee and a pair of denim overalls, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail. Deciding it was time for tea, she was just about to walk to the kitchen when she heard the buzzer for her building. She wasn’t expecting company, nor a package, so she was curious who rang.

“‘Ello?” she called into the intercom.

“Hi Bronwyn. It’s Harry.”

Shocked, she blurted the first word that came to mind. “Who?”

“Forgot me again already,” he laughed. “It’s Harry Styles.”

Clearing her throat, Bronwyn tried to get her bearings. “What can I do for you, Harry?”

“Well, I’d like to come in, if I may.”

“Um…” she pondered for a moment, looking around the room. It wasn’t as though he was going to walk into a mess and think her a slob or anything. She’d just cleaned, and her flat was tidy as a pin. “Okay.”

Bronwyn hesitantly pressed the button to buzz Harry into the building. Opening the door, she stepped out into the hallway, just in time to see him enter and look up at her from the bottom of the stairs. This time, he wasn’t trying to be inconspicuous in all black. Instead, he’d gone a similar route to his Tiny Desk performance, choosing a striped sweater vest, pinstripe shirt and brown trousers. He was again carrying a tote bag.

“Hi,” he smiled.

“Hey...how did you...find out where I live?” Bronwyn asked.

“Same way I got your number.”

“Oh. Well, um...what are you doing here?”

“Well, after we parted ways yesterday, I got the feeling that something was wrong. I just couldn’t shake it, wondering what I’d done,” Harry explained, taking the stairs to meet her. “Then it dawned on me.”

Stopping at the second to top step, Harry was nearly eye level with Bronwyn. She swallowed hard as she got a hefty whiff of his cologne.

“What’s that?” she mumbled.

“One of the things I remembered most about you, when we’d originally met all those years ago...was that you loved vinyl. It was something we had in common in fact, as I was just starting to grow my own collection. So my initial thought had been to bring you a vinyl copy of my album. But I see now that that was very presumptuous of me, if not a little pretentious. Of course you wouldn’t be interested in that. You like the old stuff, the classics.”

Her knitted eyebrows relaxing, Bronwyn’s expression softened as Harry handed her the tote bag.

“Brought these for you. Thought you might like them.”

Taking the bag, Bronwyn stared incredulously at Harry before peeking inside.

“Why did you-?”

“I offended you. Clearly,” said Harry, holding up his hand. “And I apologise. It’s my peace offering.”

If you only knew…

“Um…” Bronwyn faltered again, “I don’t suppose you’d like to come in for a cuppa.”

“Can’t stay long,” replied Harry, his lips slowly stretching into a smile. “But...that would be nice.”

With a short nod, Bronwyn turned for the doorway of her flat, Harry following. Then shutting the door behind him, she watched as his eyes perused her tiny studio apartment. There was a half wall separating her bed, a beaded curtain used for the rest of the wall. A small desk sat in the corner beside the window which was lined with plants. Beside the sofa stood her turntable, her record collection underneath. Harry took a moment to inspect it all, taking it all in whilst Bronwyn headed for the kitchen to start the kettle.

“This is really lovely, Bronwyn.”

The sound of her name from his lips made her insides jump. She looked up from the counter to see Harry walk over to the large window and gently touch the leaves of a plant.

“Thanks.”

His long legs strode across the room where he stopped and pointed to the beaded curtain and grinned.

“That is very you,” he said.

“It is?” she asked, feeling herself blush.

Harry nodded. “I reckon if I had to imagine your place, I’d picture it exactly like this.”

“Um...I’m not sure how to take that.”

His audibly pleasing laugh echoed as he walked over to the turntable.

“Do you mind?” he gestured.

“No, sure, go ahead.”

Harry grabbed the tote bag from the counter where Bronwyn had left it and pulled out the records. Choosing the Donny Hathaway Live album, he placed it gently on the turntable. As the music started, the familiar light crackling that only came from listening to vinyl, Harry turned for the kitchen, an easy smile on his face.

“I like live albums, don’t you?” he inquired.

“Sometimes.”

“It’s great because you feel like you’re there. Even when it was recorded forty years ago.”

“Hmm, yes,” Bronwyn nodded. “Except when it’s not really a hundred percent live.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Like I heard somewhere that KISS Alive! wasn’t actually all live. The producer or engineer, or maybe Gene Simmons decided some of it wasn’t clear enough, so they overdubbed it with studio clips. I don’t think some of the audience sounds were even real.”

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Harry pouted as he leant against the counter.

“Yeah. Still a good album though.”

“Have you listened to this one before?” he asked, pointing to the record player.

Bronwyn shook her head. “I haven’t. I like Donny Hathaway, but haven’t listened to very much of his stuff.”

“You’ll like this,” Harry declared with a nod.

Though the first song wasn’t even complete yet, Bronwyn somehow knew he was right. Not because she already liked it so far, but because she knew Harry had good taste. She remembered the scattered conversations about music they’d had that night…

The kettle whistled then, bringing her out of her reverie, and Bronwyn busied herself with preparing the tea.

“Um, how do you take it?” she called, seeing as Harry had made his way back to the turntable and was browsing through her record collection.

“Just lemon if you have it,” replied Harry, his head down as he studied an old jazz album.

Moments later, Bronwyn announced that the tea was ready and set Harry’s cup on the counter.

“Thanks,” he said. Inspecting a Linda Ronstadt record, he held it up. “This is one I need for my collection.”

“Yes you do,” Bronwyn agreed, carrying her cup and leaning against the edge of the counter. “It’s one of my absolute favourites.”

“I just fancy her in those roller skates and socks.”

Bronwyn couldn’t help but laugh. “Then you’ll also need the one where she’s on the beach and her nipples are showing.”

Turning his head, Harry gave a smirk. “Oh, I do have that one.”

“Figures.”

“Oh, here’s a gem!” Harry exclaimed, holding up a Bill Evans record. “I have this, too.”

Biting her lip, Bronwyn felt the heat rise on her neck as though Harry had just discovered a special secret.

“That’s my writing album. I play it a lot when I need inspiration. Or when I’m reading.”

“Wonderful,” Harry commented softly before returning it to the pile.

Last, he picked up a sleeve of Stevie Nicks’ album The Other Side of the Mirror.

“Another brilliant choice,” he said, noticing the item was light. “Where’s the record?”

Bronwyn frowned. “It got damaged in the move to New York. I have all of hers except that one. I’ve been meaning to replace it, but never did.”

“A shame,” Harry muttered. Then he rose from his spot on the floor. “Sorry, I guess I should drink that tea now.”

“It might be cold, do you want-”

Harry shook his head after taking a sip. “It’s fine.” Then he smiled. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, unable to tear her eyes from his face. “Um...I don’t reckon I’ve ever had anyone in here who dove straight for my vinyls.”

The dimples dipping deeper in his cheeks, Harry looked down at his cup. “We have quite a lot in common.”

“Hmm…” Bronwyn nodded.

“Of course, I knew that when I met you.”

Grinning slightly, Bronwyn set her cup on the counter. She’d been wanting to say something, the feeling that she’d had the night before whilst listening to his album. Now with him stood in her flat, she knew she needed to say it face to face.

“Harry, I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice to you yesterday.”

“Wha’?”

“When you gave me your record...I thought you were just being an arsehole celebrity plugging his work.”

“I understand, what’s why I-”

Bronwyn held up her hand. “I read the comments on my article, and so many people are fond of you, some even saying that they’ve met you and you’re the nicest person. I’m sorry that I jumped to conclusions.”

“I can see how you would think-”

“Harry, just accept my apology so we can let it lie.”

Pursing his lips, Harry nodded. “Apology accepted.”

“Good.” Bronwyn brought her teacup to her lips and took a slow sip as she watched Harry step around the counter to meet her.

“Now tha’ that’s done,” he said, his voice suddenly deeper, “can we address the elephant in the room?”

Lowering her cup, Bronwyn widened her eyes. “What elephant?”

“What’s still left unsaid between us…” Harry gestured.

Bronwyn shook her head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because...it was seven years ago. Let’s just forget it.”

“Maybe I don’t want to,” said Harry, his face expressionless.

Bronwyn rolled her eyes and turned for the stove, but Harry grabbed her arm.

“Why’d you leave?” he asked softly. “I thought you wanted...me.”

Taking a deep breath, Bronwyn blinked slowly. “I thought I did, too. I mean...I did.”

“I had a great time, didn’t you?”

“Yes. You still remember?”

“Of course,” Harry grinned, stepping around to stand in front of her. “I remember everythin’. Your musical knowledge that could rival anyone else’s I knew, the way you could hold your own and drink everybody under the table, your infectious laugh…”

Her lips spreading, Bronwyn let out a hearty chuckle.

“That’s the one,” Harry remarked. “And most of all I remember the kiss.”

“You do?”

For years that kiss had continued to haunt her dreams. It had been the most amazing, perfect kiss. Right before he’d asked her to leave with him. Before…

“Hold that thought!” Harry held up a finger before rushing into the living room.

She watched him take the record off the turntable and place it on side B, letting the needle drop. She hadn’t even noticed the music had stopped, she had been so caught off guard by Harry’s kiss comment. With a satisfied grin, he made his way back to the kitchen and stood before her again, just where he’d been.

“Where were we?” he beamed.

“Um...I dunno…” Bronwyn said, running a hand through her curls. She noticed his cologne was making her a bit dizzy. “You were saying how you remember…”

“Ah, right, the kiss.”

“You smell really nice.” It was involuntary. Word vomit. Still, Harry chuckled, making her feel warm all over.

“Thank you.”

Harry leant in, his lips nearly brushing against her skin. She could feel his breath on her. Awkwardly, she touched his wrists as he rested his hands on either side of her on the counter. He searched for her gaze as she looked down, focusing on how his hips were pressed against hers. She was certainly trapped, just as she’d been that night in the alcove. The rush of adrenaline combined with the memory, as well as his intoxicating aroma, made her light-headed. Bronwyn slid her hands up his arms, and just as she lifted her head, his lips found hers. They kissed soft and short kisses at first, until he pulled her closer and darted his tongue inside. Grabbing a fist full of his sweater, she let out a tiny whimper before releasing herself from the kiss and pushing her palms against his chest.

“No. I mean...sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Harry breathed.

“I just...I can’t.”

“Why not? Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No. It’s not that. I just...can’t be that woman.”

“What woman?” Harry inquired, furrowing his brows.

“The one who wakes up alone in your hotel bed after a shag and you’re nowhere to be found because you couldn’t handle saying goodbye.”

“We’re in your flat, love,” Harry giggled.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

With a sigh, Bronwyn pushed against him again, trying to wriggle herself free from his body. Stepping back, Harry allowed her space as he stared at her incredulously.

“This...it can’t happen, Harry,” declared Bronwyn. “I realised some things that night...that I just can’t get over.”

“What things? What happened?” Harry reached for her, but she waved him away.

“Please. I really would rather not talk about it. It would just...it’s too painful.”

Harry tilted his head. “But love, if we don’t talk about it, how can I-”

“I think you should go.”

“Bronwyn-”

She lowered his head, trying her best not to cry. “Please.”

With a heavy sigh, Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. “Alright.”

Bronwyn stood frozen in the kitchen as Harry made his way toward the door. Donny Hathaway continued to serenade, punctuating the scene when Harry stopped and turned around.

“The number I called you from...that’s my personal cell,” he offered. “If...you decide you wanna talk, you can call me. Or text me. I’ll be all ears.”

Bronwyn nodded, looking down at her hands. Harry opened the door and held it open as he looked at her again.

“I really hope you do, Bronwyn. I mean...no pressure, but…” Harry paused with another sigh, “I’d really like to finish that kiss.”

With that, Harry stepped out and shut the door behind him, leaving Bronwyn in the kitchen with the first of many tears to wet her cheeks.

20 August, 2013 - London, England, UK

Her entire body was on fire. She didn’t remember ever being this turned on. Not that she had a lot of experience, but...well she’d had enough. But this...this was different.

His lips had moved from hers to her neck, nibbling seductively as she tried to keep her balance against the wall of the alcove. His right hand that had been at her waist had made its way to her bum where it cupped her and urged her to lift her thigh.

“Harry…” she breathed.

His wet mouth traveled to her ear then where he whispered her name.

“Leave with me,” he requested.

“What?”

“Come with me to my hotel. Stay with me tonight.”

With a quiet yes and moan of agreement, Bronwyn turned her head to meet his lips once again.

“Let me um…” she stammered, “I need to get my bag and camera. Meet me...by the lifts? Fifteen minutes?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded as he stood straight, adjusting himself. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Tugging on her dress, Bronwyn gave him a sexy smile before a quick peck on the lips.

“See you soon,” she murmured, heading down the hall.

Finding her camera quickly, she took a trip to the loo to freshen her makeup and get her bearings. Looking in the mirror, she saw a right mess staring back at her.

“Oh Bronwyn, look at you,” she tsked. “You already looked absolutely fucked.”

Applying just a touch of cosmetics, she finger-combed her hair the best she could, trying to tame the frizzies and lift the flat parts. Then after a tiny spritz of perfume, she stood back and examined herself.

She’d never been terribly fond of her body. In fact, she’d always thought herself fat. But tonight...she felt pretty, beautiful even. Harry made her feel that way. He’d even whispered how he found her sexy whilst they’d made out in the alcove. And if someone like him wanted to sleep with her...well, she couldn’t be all bad.

Dropping her lipstick in her bag, Bronwyn slung it over her shoulder and pushed the bathroom door open. Halfway down the hall, towards the lifts, she heard voices. Slowing her steps, she came to a large door that was ajar. Peeking inside, she saw a circle of boys, and quickly recognised them as Harry and his bandmates. Harry seemed to have his back to her, and she couldn’t make out their words. That is, until she heard her name.

28 February, 2020 - New York, NY, USA

12:13 AM. Bronwyn kept clicking the button on her phone to check the time. She’d been doing that for the last forty-five minutes. Perhaps it was too late to call. He might be asleep.

But maybe not.

She didn’t like the feeling in her stomach. It turned and flipped like one of those children’s toys with the water inside. After Harry’d left, she’d let herself cry on her bed until she’d fallen asleep. When she’d risen, she’d barely eaten a few crackers and cheese before settling on a glass of wine and some tunes.

Eyeing the tote bag on the counter, Bronwyn had pulled out the other vinyl Harry had brought her. It was Wings - Back To The Egg. While she was a fan of Paul McCartney and had several of his albums, this was one of a few she’d been missing. The notion that Harry would have known that was ludicrous, but it warmed her heart just the same.

After listening to the entire album, and then the Donny Hathaway one again, Bronwyn had resolved that she might have been an idiot. Maybe Harry wasn’t a phony. Maybe she didn’t hate him anymore. And maybe...just maybe...she actually kind of liked him.

Pressing the button one last time, she unlocked her phone, finding Harry’s number easily. Her head and heart pounded as she heard it ring.

“Hi.”

Bronwyn thought she might throw up as she swallowed hard. “Hi.”

“Didn’t think you’d call.”

“I didn’t either.”

Eeeek! What do you think happened??

Please like, comment, reblog or send me a msg!

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[danadaria]

ARE YOU EXPERIENCED? COMING SOON: November 18th!

For the @steddiebang 2023 we've been working really hard to share with you this amazing S3 AU with music lover Steve, who may discover having more than something in common with Eddie Munson.

Writer: @madaboutmunson, Beta: @house-of-chant, Art: @danadaria (dat me!)

You can read a preview here:

Steve shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and feels the crinkle of the fifty from his mom against his fingertips, and his eyes move to the record store. They were probably gonna be open for an hour or so longer. He turns to the store's glass front, has a final check over his appearance and ensures his uniform is buried deep in the depths of his backpack before taking a deep breath and walking over there. It's not like he hated this place or anything. It just felt like a betrayal to the town store that was slowly but surely crumbling into non-existence. The other factor was that all the people who worked here were school kids, apart from the manager. Cheap labour, he guesses, but it means he can never fully relax here. Can never fully let the music ring through his ears so it can guide him to his next pocket-sized plastic box of hidden treasure. Most of them were younger than him, though, so intimidating them was easy enough, though with the weather warming up, they were slowly catching on to how far King Steve had fallen, working just across the way. He tells them it's character-building, an experiment. He only told Robin that it was, in fact, a punishment. He stands outside for a moment. This place is so bright and garish. Neon lights ran all over it like some fake plastic poison spreading between what he loved most. He can already hear something blaring out of there and voices chattering loudly, contending with it. He puts on his headphones, carefully placing the band so it doesn't crease up his hair, and pushes play on his Walkman. His ears fill with Nina Simone, and he takes a much easier deep breath as he walks inside. I wish I knew how it would feel to be free. As the voice smoothly fills his ears like it had just broken through the dam of the day and swirls its way around his brain into what feels like every crease, he finally feels that special feeling. The tingle from under his cheekbone to his temples, and he can finally settle into himself a little more. Swaps tension for ease as his fingers dance over the music sections, flipping cassette cases or the large vinyl album artwork as he moves around the store. That is until he starts to hear the repetition of something unfortunate, and it pulls him out of his oasis of calm back into his old, reliable, tensed body and mask. His name. "Harrington!" The voice rings out, and as if to make a show of how annoying this all is, he slowly takes off his headphones and forcibly pushes stop on his walkman. "Yes?" He says through almost gritted teeth as he turns to the origin of the sound and finds himself met with a set of hopeful brown eyes, a mass of waves and curls, and an awkward smile. Eddie "The Freak" Munson. Steve's Eddie assessment: Loud Grating Obnoxious Non-conformist to the mainstream Conformist to the Heavy Metal scene "Good to see ya, man. How're things?" Eddie forces his smile wider, but it is strained. Steve rolls his eyes with a sigh, "Let's get this over with, Munson. How can I help you?" His hands land on his hips, pushing back his jacket a little to emphasise the inconvenience, but Eddie seems unperturbed, curiously; his smile grows toothy and genuine. "Well, that's quite an offer, but I was actually thinking about the other way around." Steve's eyes follow Eddie's ringed hand that comes into view and taps the name tag on his chest, "How can I help you, Harrington?" He drops his head to the side a little.

[keepingeahalive]

C. A. Cupid Headcanons:

Her full name is Chariclo Arganthone Cupid. She doesn’t introduce her first name, since she knows most people won’t be able to pronounce or even remember it.

She is a demigod. This means she is not immortal, but she is extremely long-living and has god-like powers. She is over 1500 years old and has been a teenager for a few centuries now. 

She caused the whole fiasco with Romeo and Juliet. She doesn’t like to talk about it.

Cupid has crazy abandonment issues. Having been left on the steps of Eros’s temple as a newborn, she’s always been grateful for her godly parents. That being said, she feels she has to prove to them that she’s worthy of being their daughter. 

She’s having a bit of an identity crisis at the moment. At Monster High, she had felt she wasn’t scary enough. At Ever After High, she feels too monstrous. She’s neither a true fairytale nor a true monster. She’s not even a true god. She tries to fill the void will some sort of distraction, whether that be her radio show or her love life. 

That said, since coming to Ever After, she’s had to change her entire personality for her own safety. She actually hates being sweet and saccharine, but she knows she has to so she may blend in. She wishes she could be more witty and outspoken like she was at Monster High, and she misses the freedom that came with attending her former school. 

She sometimes slips and calls her friends “ghouls” or “beasties”. Reactions range from confused to offended, so Cupid tries to use fairytale slang as much as possible to acclimate to this new society.

She has six older siblings called the Erotes. They are the biological children of Eros, are fully immortal, and focus more on lustful desires than real love. They would often pick on Cupid for being a hopeless, sappy romantic. They own a nightclub called Venus. 

Cupid desperately wants to know who her birth parents were. She already feels out of place in Monster High, Ever After High, and the rest of her family, so she figures knowing where she came from will help her understand her true place in the world.

She loves sweets, but she has her limits. She prefers dark chocolate and black licorice over other sugary snacks.

She hates archery. Most think it’s because she’s a terrible shot (which she is), but she doesn’t like the idea of messing with someone’s head. She will only use them if they are an absolute necessity, such as when Draculaura was hypnotized by Kieran Valentine. 

She hates love potions. She finds them deceptive and disgusting. She realizes that’s somewhat hypocritical on her end. But, in her defense, she knows the consequences that come with love and magical matchmaking. It’s why she prefers her radio show over her arrows.

Cupid is painfully aware of how fairytale society views beasts and monsters, and it’s precisely the reason she keeps Monster High a secret. She doesn’t want to lose any fairytale friends, but she also doesn’t want any of her monster friends to be disrespected. She reasons that if she doesn’t talk about it and fakes being afraid of certain situations, then nobody gets hurt. It does hurt that she can’t talk about it though.

She can fly, but using her wings for transportation takes a lot of energy. She hadn’t had to use them until recently, since her Monster High wings were made of bone. Needless to say, she’s still getting used to this new power.

She has a close relationship with Hades and his wife Persephone. She visits them during winter break.

Cupid has a thing for the color blue. She doesn’t know why, but everyone she’s been naturally attracted to has worn blue in some form. 

She loves horror movies. They remind her of her ghoul-friends, though she has a few words to say about how the fairytale word portrays monster representation. 

She’s a talented astrologer. She uses it in her love advice show and for her own life in general, mostly for her own peace of mind.

She prefers 1930s and 40s jazz on vinyl over mainstream pop radio music.

Cupid still remains close friends with Dexter. She did need some time away from him at first (obviously), but they still care about one another. She’s even formed a close bond with Raven after getting to know her more. She reminds Cupid of her friends at Monster High.

[zeggyzone]

the intimacy of torture | cyphber

chamber/cypher (valorant) tags: torture, psychological torture, cigarettes, kidnapping, gun violence, delirium, unreliable narrator, aftermath of torture, aftermath of violence, angst, violence, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic description of vomit, vomit, whump, cypher whump, torturer deadeye, dead dove: do not eat, hurt no comfort, canon divergence, near death experience, cross-posted on ao3

synopsis: after the events of the SHATTERED strike team incident, cypher is sent out on a reconnaissance mission where he is tasked with understanding just exactly *who* those agents fighting alongside viper were. after two weeks, the trail goes cold, and cypher is a second too late in finding out why. or, cypher gets kidnapped by omega earth chamber (deadeye) and tortured.

sfw? very graphic so idk. 6.3k words.

notes: hello! i’m back, this time with a lot of angst. - i think what i wrote is rather graphic. continue at your own risk. - any, and ALL “accidental uses” of different names are ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL. - canon divergence where instead of simply digging through omega archives via alpha earth to uncover ATLAS, cypher is sent to omega earth to find out in person. everything else is the same. - cypher’s fake name is ‘ Khidae Eak ‘ - it gets horny. really horny. - translations will be provided in the end notes. - cypher is a linguist nerd, french people use arabic curse words (from what i know) - i made this while listening to old romantic music that you’d probably find in your dad’s vinyl collection. most of this playlist, actually. listen to it while reading if you want! happy reading :)

Omega Earth wasn’t everything Cypher expected it to be.

As much as Pearl’s geodome was a beautiful place to reside, he was disappointed. Even if the giant sunfish that swam atop and the comic shop that Cypher frequently visited (despite its harsh propaganda) were nothing short of pleasant, it was still Omega Earth. He could get used to it, maybe– plus, he would’ve loved to buy another comic if it weren’t for the circumstances he was in.

Cypher was put on a recon mission; his only directive was to locate information on ATLAS and their presence on Omega Earth. Killjoy was incredibly against it, given their previous run-in during their time as the SHATTERED strike team, but Cypher insisted on his ability.

He’s been here for two weeks now, and all he’s gathered so far are the locations of different ATLAS operational facilities; A site and B site. The doors were often guarded by security cameras, so Cypher made an effort to avoid them, but he isn’t one for keeping his distance for extended periods. Like Icarus, he frequently finds himself flying too close to the sun, threatening to get burned.

Occasionally, he met with his fellow Alpha Earth agents, oftentimes Yoru, who used his dimensional rift to retrieve and relay information back to Alpha Earth in a stealthy, swift manner. Cypher was supposed to meet with him today, but he was taking a bit longer than usual.

He eventually found himself walking around. He bought a comic for memorabilia, a cup of coffee at the little Pérola Café pop-up, and then a few bottles of cherry brandy from that little winery down by the plaza. He circled back to the Garden of Heroes as soon as he got the memo that things were back on schedule— that was of course, after he returned to his safehouse and pulled on his mask. Pearl can know of Khidae Eak, but they will not see Amir El Amari.

The walk is cheerful, bustling,

and incredibly short.

Cypher doesn’t remember the details. All he knows is that eyes were on him, and evading them was not going to be easy.

The broker; hood and scarf on at the commencement of August, body completely covered. His eyes dart around the barren garden– the occasional tourist here and there– and he spots someone. Familiarity lingers in the air– the same glance, the same frame– it couldn’t be. 

Cypher remembers looking at his PDA, ready to urge Yoru into hurrying up (excuse his phrasing), and that being compromised isn’t something that he’d appreciate. But he decides to start typing a few moments too late.

He remembers the sound of rushed footsteps, the smell and taste of alcohol, and a hushed urgency uttered in Portuguese, the enunciation nasally in essence, almost as if the orator was not a native speaker. The realization made Cypher’s head spin– or maybe it was the chloroform.

– It could be.

That’s how he managed to get ripped from his desired location with his hands and ankles cuffed to an uncomfortable metal chair, the taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue; his surroundings are dimly lit– or maybe it’s his eyes adjusting to the dark as he wakes up after being unconscious for God knows how long– and his wrists hurt. 

“Attacher ton amant à une chaise,”

Cypher exhales through his nose, the saying all too familiar, speaking honeyed on his dry tongue, – it could be.

– “C’est simple comme bonjour.”

“Vous savez votre français.”

“Et mes mots sûrs.”

“Vous êtes dégoûtant.”

“J’ai appris du meilleur.”

“My double?”

“Yes,” Cypher says, the slightest growl in his voice.

Deadeye exhales through his nose, feigning a laugh, which comes out an amused huff as he closes his captive, compelling his hat down by the rim, so gently that Cypher is reminded of his Vincent back home.

“Why are you here, Amir?”

He puffs, “Careful, I might as you the same thing, Vincent—“

The rattling of a snake,

the breaking of bones,

a groan from a broker,

the taste of iron on his tongue.

“You’re being a pain.”

“But you love when I’m in it.”

“Not you.”

Deadeye’s countenance flattens, his Headhunter spattered with Cypher’s blood as he bears his free hand to tilt Cypher's chin up to face him. His fingers trail down his throat, grazing it like he could tear his skin apart with his fingernails, just until they match the bottom of Cypher’s mask. his breath hitches. His Adam’s apple dips.

“Not the mask,” he almost begs.

Deadeye uses his Headhunter to chuck Cypher’s hat off, allowing it to fall to the floor as he practically shreds off the cuffed male’s mask. His nose is bleeding— bloodied— broken, and the bitter taste of iron sits upon his tongue, his gums an unhealthy brown from the cheap cigarettes he smoked with his beautiful Vincent.

“We’re long past that point, Amir.”

Deadeye speaks with certainty, but his actions speak louder, and they’re yelling in Cypher’s face: “I will kill you.”

But Cypher doesn’t fear death. He never has. Not since then.

Deadeye’s gums are the same color as tobacco, evident as he scowls, teeth yellowed from the smoke that Cypher assumed his counterpart blew into his mouth and forced him to savor, the cinnamon cigars being far too much of a delicacy to waste.

Cypher wants his Vincent.

“How did you know where I was?”

Deadeye strikes his pistol, barrel-first into the side of Cypher’s head, a groan stemming from his strained throat.

“I ask the questions here.”

Cypher is one for witty remarks, “so ask.”

It earns him a muzzle to the forehead.

“Do you want to die, Amir?”

“You want to kill me.”

Deadeye pushes the muzzle further onto Cypher’s forehead, “I said that I ask the questions—“

“No, you misunderstand,” Deadeye’s hand quivers with the beginning, and Cypher feels the ground shift, “it was a statement.”

The more Cypher speaks, the more he feels his heart start to beat behind his eyes– he’s seeing double and it’s like he sees Deadeye and his Vincent in front of him simultaneously. The hallucination makes him feel grounded. He wants to reach out and cup his Vincent’s cheek, rub the scar on his cheekbone, and turn away.

But Deadeye doesn’t have a scar on his cheekbone. He’s not Vincent, and he never will be.

The foreboding silence makes Cypher feel like he’s done something he will regret, and his thoughts are proven correct as soon as Deadeye pulls back the hammer of his Headhunter.

“You’re right, my friend,”

Deadeye flicks his hand. Cypher’s ears ring. His throat becomes sandpaper.

“I do want to kill you.”

He shot his fucking leg. He shot him in the fucking leg.

“Because you know too much,” it fucking hurts, “and I need to make sure you don’t tell any more than you already have– one way or another.”

The breathing is heavy in the room, and Cypher feels like he’s going to suffocate if he doesn’t get his shit together. He’s a grown man cuffed to a chair with blood dripping down his leg and bleeding into his baggy gray pants. He loved those pants. The air is crisp, hard to swallow, and hot. It’s as if Chamber’s body heat and musk are forcing itself down Cypher’s throat– it’s asphyxiating.

Chamber’s hand clutches Cypher’s jaw, tautening each time a hic fled his throat, his eyes fleeting tears. Cypher thinks his jaw might give out with the way he’s clenching it so hard– Deadeye slams his skull against the concrete wall. Cypher cries.

“And I’m not opposed to using methods that are considered corrupt, Amir.”

He’s dizzy, he’s losing blood, and he knows he has to survive whatever Deadeye puts him through. He has to. He must. Cypher’s breaths are labored, but his eyes don’t falter– they’re forced open and he just wants to sleep—the intimacy of torture– plagued by your lover.

“I could leave you braindead, do you ever think of that?” Deadeye asks it with a sickening smile as if he’s enjoying it. Cypher would not be surprised if it was some crazy fucking fantasy of his– Cypher feels his face tighten.

“I’d rather not,” he whispers, and Chamber smiles at him, pseuding innocence. Cypher fears what's next. The broker knows everything about everyone but is oblivious and frightened here. He wants to fight back– he has to fight back.

Save your life, Amir– you’ve only got one.

“Imagine what your friends back home will think,” Deadeye tilts his head, twirling a curl next to Cypher’s temple. His lips purse and he pulls his head away as best he can, his brows furrowing in disgust– trepidation– sorrow? Cypher doesn’t even know what. “What would your Vincent think? Will he cry? Will you comfort him?”

Deadeye’s twisted smile widens, “Will you even survive to see him?”

The finger leads down to Cypher’s lower eyelid, his middle finger pulling down at it, his pointer prodding at his eyeball. The feeling is abnormal– the pad of Deadeye’s finger pushes at Cypher’s eye, and he tries to shut them, pulling his head away as sufficiently as he can. His mind blanks.

“You often prattle about being the ‘all-seeing eye’ Amir,” Deadeye’s hand doesn’t halt, but stays put. A hazy breath leaves Cypher’s throat, terrified, “but a spider cannot string its web half blind.”

Wait, Cypher wants to say, but it comes out as a pathetic whine, and Deadeye laughs at him. He laughs in his face. Not like this— no, it can’t end like this. 

“You’re shaking.”

Part of him wants to bite the bullet and talk back, but the sheer fear that displays itself within his clenched jaw renders him wordless as Deadeye’s fingernail digs at his cornea. The bawl that seethes through Cypher’s teeth is piercing; he begs for mercy, forgiveness– anything to spark empathy in Deadeye’s amused stare, and from behind his wet finger, stained with Cypher’s tears (he didn’t even realize he was crying), he sees those same bedroom eyes that yielded him speechless in better ways than this.

He swats his head down, and Chamber swiftly slaps him, grabbing him by his jaw once again; the familiar ache returns. He’s cursing at him, laughing, and it’s demeaning. Cypher is glad that his head is ringing so much that he cannot hear him, and that his eyes are too blurred to even view the face of his love.

Or what it would’ve been, at least.

Cypher then realizes what is at stake here– he could possibly ruin everything the protocol had going for them right now– getting killed by an Omega agent could very well compromise the whole operation, much less get him killed. Cypher could care less about that.

He imagines Chamber wouldn’t, though.

So he forces himself to think. The pain is like sparklers underneath his skin, but he blinks back the hot tears and clenches his fists behind his back, fingernails digging into the skin– he tries to focus on that instead.

Handcuffs, you know how to get out of those. Crime novels might not be the best source to rely on, but it’s all you have, Amir; work with it. Chamber gently traces his jawline and he gulps. Cypher tries not to think about it too hard– if he does, he won’t see Deadeye anymore. He cannot handle that outcome.

To a flick of lighter, Cypher looks up– second nature, really– to see Deadeye lighting a cigarette; filter-tipped Virginia blend. Expensive. The authenticness of his character is uncanny. Cypher wants to throw up.

A London delicacy that has to be shipped in at a much higher price, and Chamber is holding it in his right hand, lifting Cypher’s chin to look at him with his left. His captor blows the smoke out in Cypher’s face, and he inhales– a reflex– as the smoke tingles against his eyes. Deadeye twirls the cigarette in his fingers, and inches the cherry towards Cypher’s neck.

“You’re greedy, Amir.” He says, the heat tickling the hairs that already stand on edge. “These go for fifty-five United States dollars per pack. Specialty blends Virginia tobacco, and you’re taking my leftovers,” Deadeye punctuates with a laugh, “you are pathetic. Très pathétique.”

The cherry makes contact, and the scorch makes him fume. “You’re wasting them–”

“On trash, yes,” Chamber says, “But I’ll relight it just for you, if that is what you want, Amir.”

“No,”

The zippo clicks again. Cypher braces himself.

Three cigarette burns mark his neck, and Chamber looks at them like an artist would his magnum opus, prideful in his masterpiece. He drops the cigarette onto Cypher’s shoe, stepping into it.

Cypher zones out.

Then he feels something against his left thigh. Thin– sharp.

Khra, fuck. Of course, he has to pull it out now.

“You’re ravishing like this, Amir,” you are not doing what I fucking think you are doing, “it feels as if it is my job to impair you,” you are not his, “Vous êtes mon problème, after all.” Focus– one hand to abduct the joint, the other set in place to perform the deed.

Dislocate your thumb and slip out your hand. Dislocate your carpometacarpal joint, specifically. You don’t want to break your hand– that’s one less resource you have– if you dislocate your thumb, you can pop it back into place. Easy as pie? Hopefully. Deadeye’s hand falls. Cypher exhales. He was not aware he was holding his breath.

Within the next strike, play it off. Easy.

Chamber drags down the flat side of the blade against his femur, and as the blade is pushed ever so slightly, Cypher lets out a yowl, his thumb angled at an abnormal angle now– one more to go. He uses his other hand to pry off the handcuffs. He forces his shoulders to stay put– a strenuous task, but he manages, and he makes sure to quietly drop the cuff, avoiding any sound cues that may alert his captor.

They did not die for you to fail to endure.

Cypher’s hair stands on end.

It seems Deadeye doesn’t notice the ploy, as he says something about how he had “barely touched” him and that he “shouldn’t jolt like that.” As if he cared.

Cypher can handle a slashed thigh, and he can handle a bullet to the leg– but either way, he will end up bringing fists to a knife and gunfight. He doesn’t even know if Deadeye has additional weapons on him. He fears the worst, even if he’s too set on persisting to realize it.

The blade digs into his skin, and it takes so much inside of him not to buck his legs while dislocating his other thumb, and a growl burrows itself in his throat, coming out in tragically sputtered speech. His eyes shake, looking down even if his brain told him not to, and he sees the blood seep from the cut, slowly– so achingly slowly– staining his already soiled pants. The blood from his nose has already dried and the smell is rancid. He feels a stinging, putrid, and chunky liquid rise in his throat. He bites his tongue and forces the egregious mixture back down. You have seen worse. this is nothing.

He works his other hand of its confines as best he can, his eyes flittering with every twinge of discomfort. He wants to thank God if there even is one out there, that Deadeye doesn’t suspect anything. Maybe there is one if he’s survived this long.

Cypher’s atheist views aside, he ignores the edge slicing into his skin and the wetness dripping down his thigh, working to pop his left thumb back into the socket. Chamber meets Cypher’s dazed stare. He smiles. Cypher exhales, his breath malodorous as olden remains of vomit rest upon it, the thumb unsuccessful in popping back into place as Deadeye rubs his thumb on the wound– it pricks. He feels small crystals chafe at the serrated edges of the cut, and Cypher realizes that he’s genuinely rubbing salt in the wound.

There is something so intimate about it. Captive and captor. He will never look at that smile the same.

Cypher looks at his ankles, one cuff under the leg of the chair and the other connected to him. Lift the chair. Slide it under. He almost laughs– it couldn’t be that easy, and he’s right; he’s shot, he’s cut, and he’s lost blood. Not to fucking mention that he can’t feel his face, but can somehow feel the sweat dripping down the side of his crown, sticking his curly brown hair to his forehead. The broker pops his right thumb back into the socket, flinching as Deadeye slams the knife in the middle of his legs.

He recounts. His legs have been shot at and sliced. That’s a disadvantage. He has no weapons. If he took the knife, he’d be bringing a knife to a gunfight. He doesn’t know if Deadeye has a quick reloader. Maybe he can get him to waste his bullets. Yes, that seems plausible.

Chamber’s hand reaches up to his jawline again, his thumb parting Cypher’s lips ever so slightly, but his jaw stays clenched– he can feel the simmering of salt on his lips. Deadeye forces him to open up, resting the salt-covered thumb on his tongue, and holding it down. A pathetic, broken sob leaves Cypher’s throat. Just a bit more. Find an opening, Amir. You cannot die here. You cannot let him destroy you like this,

because what would happen if you allowed it?

His breath hitches in his throat as Chamber forces his thumb deeper, “Clean it,” he demands, and Cypher leaps into the breach, the taste of sodium and iron on his tongue, causting– a chemical reaction that Cypher wishes didn’t do things to him. He imagines his actual lover performing and wants to fucking bite Deadeye’s thumb off.

“Watch the teeth,” Deadeye scowls, pulling his thumb with a pop and wiping it on Cypher’s shoulder. He swats his hand to clean it, looking away for just a fucking second. That is all the time Cypher needs. His heart aches for warmth, touch– Vincent– so he stands up, tugs the knife out, grabs the chair, and hurls it at him.

He doesn’t realize how badly his legs want to give out until he’s standing upright (more like glorified perching with the way his knees buckle), his grip on the knife faltering ever so slightly as he catches his breath, feeling the adrenaline kick through his veins. He knows it will be over soon– he is only human. 

He squints as Deadeye tries to recover from the metal hurled at his frame, and he grunts– and of course, he doesn’t have his fucking glasses. His eyesight comes back to bite him in the ass in a life-or-death situation. Maybe God isn’t real. The room is dark, only lit by a buzzing lightbulb that hurts Cypher’s head. It occurs to him that he shouldn’t have time to think because if he can, he’s doing something wrong.

A bullet flies past his head and it brings him back to reality– he is the disadvantage, one dislocated thumb refusing to pop back into place, legs ready to give out at any given moment, and Deadeye just fucking shot at him.

Cypher yells, legs flailing as he flies towards Deadeye, firing blindly. He can tell that he is disoriented still, so he uses it to his advantage. One hand reaches to Deadeye’s wrist– the one holding Headhunter– and pins it down to the best of his ability, kneeing his crotch (hard, at that) to further disable him. Deadeye’s free hand balls into a fist, and slams into Cypher’s cheekbone, groaning out in pain from the previous knee, sprawled on the floor as he tries to keep his hold on Headhunter firm, but Cypher tugs it out of his hand, head spinning as it slides all the way across the linoleum floor, clanking against a piece of metal.

An exit route.

Cypher slams the knife into Deadeye’s right wrist, and he wails, a loud curse echoing through the desolate room as his left shoots up to grab Cypher by the scalp. Chamber tugs his head back, harshly, and Cypher growls, kneeing him once more to slacken his grasp, raising the knife from the puncture with a hellish sound. The ridges of the knife dig against Deadeye’s skin, slitting his wrist into a perfect cavern, through and through. Cypher can feel both of their strength diminishing.

The words spoken are lost to CCTV footage, (that’s if there is a camera in here in the first place) and whizzed memory, but Cypher feels his body move on autopilot, rolling off Chamber, even if he can feel the tightened grip on his scalp pull at his hair follicles, and his body follows in the path that Chamber is dragging him in. He headbutts him once– twice– Cypher stumbles backward when his grip loosens, immediately sitting up to grab his right wrist, squeezing it to try and stop the pain. His groans lay low within his throat, guttural.

Cypher feels his head spinning, and the adrenaline starts to wear off– he cannot allow that to happen.

He holds his head, knife laying in his hand as he pushes himself up to his feet, legs wobbling after each frantic step, trying to find the gleam of the Headhunter as a guide towards the metal door. It’s so, so close, and Cypher thinks he’s reaching out to the door, only to fall over.

Deadeye yanked at one of the cuffs dragging behind his ankle, hard enough to pull Cypher down to one knee. Maroon secretion spreads along the floor in generous portions with the pressure, the sensation closer to tv static. Diaphoresis sets in, and bullets of sweat excavate out of his body, heat evaporating into the still air. It’s sticky, sweltering, humid— wet. He hurls himself over, reaching out towards the door.

Every waking thought made his head pound– his life wasn’t flashing before his eyes, no, it was the terrible anxiety and realization that every decision he has made in his sad, pathetic life was a total failure and he had to be beaten to death by his lover’s clone to deduce that? Nora. Hadiya.

How could he let this happen? His head spins, this is it.

God forbid you meet at a crossroads with Amir El Amari.

He is the greatest mistake you could make.

Chamber crawls his way towards Cypher, flipping him over and trapping him between his legs, heaving. His hair is disheveled, framing his forehead with a slight glisten of sweat, and Cypher thinks he almost looks beautiful.

Deadeye takes the knife with the smallest struggle, using his right hand to hold it despite the gushing wound, his other creeping up to Cypher’s neck.

Chamber’s fingers graze Cypher’s neck so lovingly for a second, so short that he feels at ease. Chamber tightens. Cypher’s breath hitches. He whimpers. He pleas. Chamber wants to see him squirm.

Because what is more intimate than a captive and his captor?

“You fucking did this,” his words are gruff and are punctuated by the sickening ‘shhk’ of a blade ripping fabric and skin— Cypher doesn’t register the stab below his clavicle; rather, he’s too focused on grabbing Deadeye’s shoulder to push him off. He has one hand clawing at Deadeye’s wrist, hoping it’ll do something, anything, to get him one last breath of air.

Thinking is so hard, but he manages.

“My fucking—“ an enraged huff, “my hand, ayreh feek—“ he picks up Cypher by the neck and slams his head back down into the solid floor. He yowls. Cypher pushes him away, hand right under his jaw, trying to create distance. A growl, “vous ne valez rien.”

Cypher lets go of his wrist, trying to pull the knife out with a cigarette-befouled voice, “I’m going to kill you.”

Deadeye digs the knife in deeper, much to Cypher’s distress, and in response, punches Deadeye in the jaw. His captor shouts, reaching out behind him, throwing something– Cypher’s eyes suddenly fucking sting. Crystalline stabs at his cornea with each blink, like icicles under his eyelids, and he discovers that Deadeye just threw salt at him. Fucking salt. It’s scattered all over his face, catnapping the places where bones dip, and he feels it fall to the back of his throat. He shuts his eyes, hurling upward as he coughs, the hand around his neck uncooperative in his efforts to rid the sodium crystals from the back of his mouth.

“Not if I do it first.” He says through a laugh tainted with mockery, “I will crush your eyes,” he dips down to Cypher’s ear, “Amir,” Chamber says. Cypher doesn’t know if it’s a threat or a promise.

His grip is unforgiving, irritated, and deadly. He wants to break Cypher’s neck.

For once, Amir El Amari fears death.

Cypher hears melodies in his ear, ringing ever so slightly. Jazz– romantic jazz, at that. Songs that Chamber played for him late at night after romantic (or less romantic) scenes, or a long day out in the field, and all they needed was a meal and a nap. Trumpets and pianos, saxophones and bass, played upon an old stereo with antique reverb and a low pass filter that seems to become more muffled the tighter Chamber squeezes– he squints, free arm reaching outwards beyond Deadeye’s acknowledgment.

He’s talking. Cypher can’t hear him. He just needs to extend his hand.

His vision is blurred. He feels the room starting to get darker. His heartbeat is slowing. Why so aware? Why now? In his final moments, he sees his lover and not his captor– why?

A twisted fucking way to go out, and Cypher doesn’t consider himself twisted.

A grip. Finally.

Cypher’s shaky finger pulls the decorated nano-carbon steel into his grasp, and a huff of air leaves his nose. His hands tremble in his wake, Deadeye, so focused on staring him down, that he doesn’t realize the limb snaking under his own and aiming the radianite-infused firearm right under his chin.

Cypher weakly smiled, mustering up whatever strength he had left. 

Through broken breaths, “Laila sa'ida, habibi.”

The trigger is squeezed. The grip extricates. Cypher breathes. He pushes him off. Blood seeps onto his white collared shirt. Cypher brushes his face of bloodshed. He looks at the ceiling.

He just wants to sleep. But he can’t. So he won’t.

Cypher looks at the steaming gun, discarding it to the side, his back, head, – hell, his whole body aching as he shimmies his way towards the knife. He looks at Deadeye; his eyes are blown wide open, twitching ever so slightly, jaw slacked. He lies there, unresponsive as Cypher holds the knife in his dominant hand, cutting his left sleeve at the shoulder seam, and pulling it over his gloves. He leans over, grabbing the leg of the metal chair, and setting it up straight as best he can. Cypher puts his left foot up on the chair, looking at the cut. He furrows his brows, recovering from the blackness in his eyes, placing the knife on the chair. Cypher pops his right thumb back into its socket. He jerks his hand, getting used to it.

“Sorry for ruining your shirt,” he mutters, picking up the cut sleeve and unrolling it, “but you destroyed my favorite pair of pants,” Cypher ties the tourniquet, “so we’ll call it even.” He reaches over to cut off Deadeye’s other sleeve, repeating the action and looking at the bullet wound. He looks at the chair, then his thigh. Straight through. No bullet to pull out. That’s good.

It had just missed his bone. He’s one lucky, unlucky guy.

As soon as the deed is done, he wipes his nose on his sleeve, the whiteness sullies with dried blood, pulling out a few hairs from his face. He sniffs. It is unpleasant. He elevates his legs on the chair to regulate his blood flow as best he can, lying next to the corpse of his former captor. He nicks off another piece of fabric to stuff in the stab wound below his clavicle. He writhes.

He feels the familiar reverberation in his lower stomach, then the gurgle in his throat. 

Of course. Why now? Nonetheless, he uses his arms to push him up off the floor, scrambling and clawing towards the corner for purchase. The sick noise in his throat materializes and before Cypher knows it, vile liquid exerts itself from his mouth, throat salty as the bile fans into the corner, painting the walls with its projectile and splattering onto his knees. A sharp, caramelized, nutty stench paired with butyric acid fills the air. It’s fucking putrid. He does this twice, retching violently as his body hurls over like a cat, legs shaking as his left hand begs the wall for acquisition.

By the end of it, his body feels ten times lighter, but he feels as if he threw up all of his vital organs. He might as well have, given the way his body almost slumped into his puddle of puke. He pushes himself away from the wall, falling backward onto the floor, careful enough so that he won’t harm his head any more than it has been. His very alive head lies upside down next to Deadeye’s very much unalived one.

Now it’s just Cypher, his thoughts, and Deadeye’s corpse.

Help should be on the way, yes?

So, kick back, smoke a cigarette, and find a way to contact Alpha Earth. Yoru should have picked up that something is wrong, reported back to HQ, and they’re sending people— probably not a whole strike team, but people— to retrieve him. It’s that easy.

He lies there for a minute– then five minutes– then ten minutes pass until he exchanges his gaze at the ceiling for Deadeye, then his vest. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to search him.

He grunts, pushing himself off the floor, head still buzzed from the previous beatings, sitting with his legs straight next to his cadaver, keeping the tourniquets from loosening. He reaches over, twisting his hips to look over Deadeye, first checking his vest pockets.

A speed loader, eight bullets. It seems Deadeye was ready for a fight. Obviously, he did not prepare well enough.

A zippo lighter. Majestic Eagle– 1990’s vintage. At least he’d have something to occupy him.

A handkerchief. Sunset in color swirled in design. It matches his tie. The crimson from the bullet has seeped its way into it. Cypher grimaces. It’s still wet.

Cypher wants to hope that there’s water. There isn’t even a flask. Apparently, Deadeye doesn’t have the same habits as his lover.

His pants now.

An art deco, 1930s-themed cigarette tin with seventeen treasurer cigarettes left. He might as well put them to use if it meant he’d be stuck here for a while. Chainsmoking is a very good use of your time if you don’t think about it too much.

An Altoids can. Open it? Around 60 mints. He might have to survive off that for a bit.

Cypher pockets the Altoids, quick to crack open the cigarette tin and flip open the zippo, lighting himself a coffin nail, savoring the specialty tobacco. He flips the lighter closed, the cylinder resting between his lips as he digs around for anything else– maybe his old belongings.

The broker manages to pull himself to his feet, his eyes still blurred to a manageable degree. A black plastic bag is what he’s looking for– his comic, his brandy, and hopefully his biscotti is in there. He hears plastic rustle by his feet, along with a clinking of glass, and he almost laughs in victory before he realizes that there could very well be people outside his escape route.

He picks up the bag and trudges his way to the metal chair, resting the plastic bag in his lap as he sits. He cracks open the bottle of brandy after desperately searching for his PDA (it hadn’t been in there– a shame; at least Omega agents were smart enough to do that, though), pulling the cork out with his teeth and taking a strong swig to wash down the taste of vomit residue on his teeth and tongue.

His eyes dart back to Deadeye’s lifeless body, skimming his body for any part he forgot to search, hoping for a PDA, a homing device, something that could help him relay his location.

Then he feels a vibration.

It’s well known that Pearls’ power source runs underneath the city like its veins– its life force. Cypher has a feeling that it’s a hint as to where he could be situated.

If he remembers correctly, within the past few days he’s been here, the metro roars to life at around four o’clock in the afternoon on Mondays and Fridays. By that math, he’s been in here for six hours. How he slept that long? Cypher has no fucking idea. 

And, if he takes into account the fact that it takes one large rumble (that lasts half a minute, from what Cypher gathered) across the city of Pearl to send the metro down to the city of Opal, he should be at least somewhat far from the metro, established that the rumble lasted about ten seconds for him.

Maybe reading the briefing was a good thing.

Cypher takes a bite of his biscotti, downing it with a swig of brandy, setting the bottle onto the floor with a tiny clink, holding the cookie in his mouth as he kneels next to Deadeye with a grumble of discomfort, lifting him and rolling him as needed to search.

He handles something solid, and upon a few taps, he confirms that it is, in fact, a communications device. Cypher prays it's his own.

It is.

Cypher doesn’t realize how fucking lucky he is as soon as he pulls it out. It dawns on him a few moments later (after staring at the PDA, wide-eyed, and enduring a painful giggle fit of disbelief) that he has a get-out-of-jail free card, and that maybe God does exist.

He scrambles to turn it on, and even if the signal is spotty, he still has signal. He will take what he can get.

AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:07 PM ALIVE DON’T KNOW LOCATION POSSIBLY A SITE CAN TRY RELAYING

AGENT-15 [YORU] // 4:13 PM TOUCHED DOWN RELAY IF POSSIBLE WE WILL FIND YOU

AGENT-01 [BRIMSTONE] // 4:17 PM STRIKE TEAM INBOUND STAY WHERE YOU ARE DO NOT ENGAGE

AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:21 PM WAS NOT PLANNING ON IT HURRY

Fourteen minutes to relay twelve messages. Cypher didn’t think they’d send in the first place. But that’s beside the point; he has a job now– press down on his relay system and pray that the signal is strong enough for the strike team to find him.

But to kill time, he’s going to chain smoke, drink, and read his comic book.

What a wonderful way to spend his afternoon as a 37-year-old man.

The cigarette stays pressed between his lips as he takes a drag, digging through the plastic bag for the flimsy bundle of paper, setting it in his lap as his fingers flip the pages one by one, tucking the stick into the corner of his mouth, taking another swig of brandy.

If he was going to be in pain, he was not going to be sober.

It’s not until Cypher has reread the comic five times (which takes a while– approximately fifteen minutes per read, making him stuck there for nearly an hour and a half) that he hears sirens going off and shit hitting the fan. He stays put, however, the blaring noises are just a tad bit discomforting to his already tinnitus-symptomatic head. It then occurs to him that maybe he should put his mask back on. But that means he’d have to stop smoking. And drinking.

Shame, he was already getting buzzed.

Even worse, he expected them to take longer.

Cypher pushes himself up from his chair, the comic falling onto the floor as he reaches down to pick it up and pack his pathetic plastic bag, his legs stumbling from his sluggishness, body heavier than it should be. At the expense of his liver, he made it through whatever the hell this was. He tosses Deadeye’s Headhunter into his bag.

He sloppily pulls his mask over his head, dismissing the way his sweaty curls stuck to the insides, too drunk and in need of a bed to care. His hat still lay unmoving on the floor from events he’d rather not recall, the way that dried blood found its home on the rim from where Deadeye pushed it off sending chills down Cypher’s spine. The bottle of brandy is 75% done, (Cypher didn’t realize that either; it was good brandy, as expected from Omega), held loosely in his hand.

The footsteps and sirens blare louder within Cypher’s ears, and the white, piercing noise grows with it, much to his distress. He’s stumbling, covering his ears– he’s tired, he’s drunk, and he needs a fucking doctor. These wounds aren’t going to heal themselves and he just wants to get out. He wants to see sunlight, and fuck, the anxiety is setting inside of him again. Fuck you, Omega brandy.

The door flies open, he turns his head.

Cypher almost falls over at the sight– dark, flashing red lights on the outside make him want to fall asleep in the warmness of his coat (which probably wasn’t even warmth, given the blood he’s lost) and never wake up. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking.

Blue. Orange. Yellow. The colors are a blur.

His knees buckle, and he tumbles.

His captor.

“attacher ton amant à une chaise” = tie your lover to a chair / french

“c’est simple comme bonjour” = it’s as simple as hello / french

“vous savez votre français” = you know your french / french

“et mes mots sûrs” = and my safe words / french

“vous êtes dégoûtant” = you are disgusting / french

“j’ai appris du meilleur” = i learned from the best / french

“très pathétique” = so pathetic / french

“khra” = shit / moroccan arabic

“vous êtes mon problème” = you are my problem / french

“ayreh feek” = fuck you / arabic

“vous ne valez rien” = you are worthless / french

“laila sa'ida, habibi” = sleep well, my love / moroccan arabic

apologies if any of the arabic is incorrect. i’m on my second year of french as well, so that may be an issue too.

thank you for reading, i hope it was worth the hours i spent in a custom game as cypher on pearl to worldbuild and the time i spent scouring valorant archives to find plot devices.

huge thanks to the practice range discord server for keeping me sane during this (and giving me feedback when i was in the process of writing it)

another thanks to my beta reader, you’re a real one fr.

a follow-up chapter of the aftermath MAY come out within the next few weeks if i am feeling it. if not, maybe the next few months if i regain the motivation to work on this again :)

any questions can (and will most likely) be answered in the comments!

as always, my socials twitter tiktok tumblr

and our valorant lore-centric discord server! we’d love to have you! 人´∀｀)

[its-been-rose]

Listen all I want is to know what Forrest did to get blacklisted

“It’s my fun side that gets me in trouble” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN-

DID HE SWITCH OUT A VINYL WITH A HILARIOUSLY WRONG SONG AT AN INOPPORTUNE TIME, MAKING ANOTHER DJ LOOK BAD?

DID HE DATE AN INTERN?

DID HE FAKE A COLD WAR NUKE THREAT?

DID HE MAKE FUN OF A CALLER?

DID HE MAKE A KNOCK KNOCK JOKE TO A STUCK UP MANAGER?

DID HE TELL PEOPLE MICHAEL JACKSON DIED?!

There’s so many possibilities because “fun” is such a subjective spectrum- like did he do something extremely tame that just got under his asshole boss’ skin? Or did he do something that actually hurt people???? SIR WHAT DID YOU DO?!

[reevezs]

//closed starter for @parvumchao

To put it nicely, Zach wasn't the best at making friends or even being nice to strangers to have a little conversation with them. He took no hints, almost always too busy minding his business to interact with others. There were times, however, when Zach was lucky enough to meet someone by a total accident and got to talk with them long enough to become friendly towards them, before he even noticed. Not that he was a grump, pushing everyone away or biting when they got (too) close, but it looked like in order to make a connection he needed to be adopted by someone.

Whether it was something Lou planned or not, she was one of those people who made Zach stick around longer. It had to be at least partly because of Lou's job and her car – the two things they could actually talk about without having to fake anything, and when the blue-haired man realized he might have made a friend, he was surprised it came so naturally, without awkward moments. Maybe that's just how people function and it's no miracle. Well, it definitely was one for him, though.

*

It was supposed to be one of those uneventful evenings. Knowing that he would still find Lou at The Vinyl Countdown at this hour, Zach dropped by on his way home to say hi, and the two decided to hang out a bit before they parted ways. Nothing out of the ordinary, not even a single controversial comment about a music band or how much milk in coffee was too much. Just a boring evening spent with a friend.

How on Earth have they ended up like this, then, covered in red splatters and frantically closing Lou's door behind them, hurrying before anyone could see them? They were lucky it was late enough for the streets to be rather empty and that they hadn't run into anyone, because there was no way they could convince another person it was nothing. But within the safety of Lou's home's walls, things still didn't get any better. Zach wasn't freaking out not because it would be so out of character for him, but mostly because he was too shocked to process all the events and react in any way.

But who wouldn't be traumatized by seeing a friend unexpectedly pull out a knife and stab an aggressive man at least twice her size, and then having to ditch the motionless body somewhere to buy themselves some time. It made Zach feel nauseous when the same scene replayed in his head in great detail. What was even worse, he knew he most likely could have protected Lou and himself from the guy, but there was nothing he could have done to prevent that horror from happening as long as he didn't see it coming. And, to be fair, there was no way Zach could have predicted Lou's reaction to the stranger's provocation and protect the man from her.

Without a word, he stepped farther into the dark unfamiliar room, running both bloodied hands through his hair with a deep breath to calm himself down. Asking if she was okay or what she thought they should do now sounded unnatural and forced; whoever put such lines in movies was horrible at their job. He wanted to know why she reacted the way she did, but the question waited for the right moment, too. Zach stood there in silence for what felt like ages, until he turned to Lou at some point and the realization that their clothes were covered in the stranger's blood finally sank in.

[yourlocalpickle]

Actually here's some Gabbika (she has a name now!!!) because I'm experimenting with lineart and 'simpler' style (for comics, mainly)

backstory dump below!!

Once a human lady, living a pretty chill life - Gabbika had many interests, which she happily enjoyed. Coming from a decently wealthy family herself, she was well educated and lucky enough to work as an appraiser at her family's little jewellery store. She was an expert at telling apart the fakes from the real, and giving things their true value. Yet her private life was full of cheap things, which whilst not as expensive carried much more emotional value to her. She loved color, she loved fun. She had a hefty collection of movies and vinyls, when she felt good enough, she'd dance, and overall really tried to enjoy a lot in life. During all that, The War was happening, but because of the location and 'luxury' her family's store offered, she only ever got second hand news.

Well, she was met with quite a surprise, after The Revolution happened. A mixed boy, half human and half monster took the leadership role. And quickly started enforcing new rules around.

Gabbika's family was accused of supporting hunting monsters (even tho they tried to stay away from both sides) and promptly arrested. All their belongings being redistributed to 2 sisters (guys they don't have a name yet, even tho they really old ocs of mine :( ). Turns out, they were one of the few humans with financial enterprises, which chose to support the Rebels. And now they were reaping the rewards - which in Gabbika's case meant taking over her entire store.

Gabbi was the only person 'left' from her family. As she was too young at the time to be 'recognised', she avoided imprisonment. The sisters took notice of that too, 'feeling pity' for her and offering her a job...at her own store. That was an offer she couldn't say no to!

Gabbika suffers from chronic pain (on most days she gets through, but the bad ones aren't uncommon either), and so she's got to take care of and make accomodations for herself. She's independent in most things, but majority of her budget is spent on painkillers and rehabilitation sessions. That means less money for tanning beds and makeup! Tragic! But no, seriously, she was on her way to build a colorful and fun life for herself, and then everything got taken away from her. She's forced to work for 2 heartless stuck-up sisters, putting on a 'serious' faćade, not allowed to really express herself, or indulge in things she'd like. And they're holding her hostage, as they exclusively own the entire 'gem' and jewellery industry in the City.

Gabbika wouldn't be able to run a place with her own name, and even if, the sisters would smush it out of existence.

She doesn't plan on 'keeping' things this way. She's constructing a plan. But until then, she decided to start ventilating her built-up frustration and hatred for 'the rich'. By putting on a new disguise (ironically, a look that she feels much more like herself, than in anything she can normally wear) and vandalizing properties and belongings of various wealthy individuals. Defacing them with paint and various junk. Things aren't perfect. And money won't make them any 'better' than all the people they try to separate themselves from!

Gabbika is fed up.

[scotch-superglue]

i saw scott's email to dan from that lawsuit and omg? idk i feel like an illusion or something has been shattered. i never defended her for the very questionable things she's done (m*tty, jets, etc) but in my head i've always kinda let her off for it. but yiikkees. i had no clue she was that fucking rich?? her dad sold a house for 2.5 MILLION before 2008. she definitely works hard af but she is so insanely privileged with her dad's connections and money wow.

i was disappointed seeing the new ttpd version with the one extra song. her releasing versions where 90% of the content is the same is shitty as hell. and soo unnecessary. people should be able buy a single vinyl with all the songs. and the fake limited time sales. she's gonna make it available again in a few months, but she wants people to panic buy it. asshole move imo.

the movie was even worseee omg. the tickets itself were way too high. it was 130dirhams in dubai, which is roughly 35 dollars???? WHICH IS INSANE FOR A SINGLE TICKET. just cuz it's her lucky number doesnt make it okay to charge such a high fee. it was just standard that too, not even imax or anything. tickets are generally like 30-60dhs (8-13$). made me feel insane for going with my sister.

also having shows in t*l av*v?? if she wasnt gonna speak up abt palestine, least she could do is not have a showing there. her website said that the shows are cancelled but in local theatres, it was showing.

then putting it for rent for $20, just to release on streaming a couple months later. literally insane. just trying to milk money. RENT for 20$??? what the actual fuck. she's already a billionaire, i dont understand why she does things like this.

actually i feel like i do now. after reading her dad's email, her family dynamic and her behaviour is making a lot more sense. her dad constantly talked about how much money he puts in and how he gets nothing in return etc etc. money money money. i think her greed(?) makes so much sense to me now.

the jets i understood not publishing it in real time, can be dangerous for her ig. and feels stalkerish. but threatening with a lawsuit is kinda like what? the guy seems like a piece of shit but he didn't do anything illegal. and apparently the list that swifties have been using to prove that she isnt in the top 30 isnt even accurate. she was in fact the highest polluter. extremely disappointing.

tbh i had all these thoughts in the back of my head, but i saw her as a fundamentally good person so i pushed it away a little. but like now idk. it just doesnt make sense to think that. i've been a fan for more than 12 years at this point ig, and it makes me kinda sad. i've been reading the posts on r/swiftlyneutral and like yeah?? the things they say are true?? i used to vehemently deny a lot of accusations, but yeah she is performative, and doesnt talk abt issues unless it relates to her.

i dont know what the point of this post was, feels awkward to talk abt to my irl friends so yes just posting it here

bye

[artwithoutblood]

he doesn't give a shit about the player but he's willing to be friends if you ask! that's him.

alright ouch.

you know the like. old people. feeling like they are the parent of every young individual they meet? like the "oh im 50 and you are 20 you could have been my child i'll parent you without even realizing it" thing. i always thought genesis would do that. but if you think about it agewise, every living human being has the potential to be his kid at this point lmao.

i mean he kinda called Death 'kid' all the time so maybe he feels that way when Aeron isnt involved? same anon from the 'gen be my dad' ask btw! i still feel the same. please be my dad.

he will be your friend, he will be your dad.

he is very much a paternal figure because when I made him be this kind of rockstar, I was slightly inspired by my own father, and the way he would get me into different music and buy me vinyls and have me listen to weird Icelandic bands, or radiohead or something. there is this very particular bond that I think children who have good relationships with their fathers have concerning music. I made a one page tabletop game a while back that featured Genesis on the cover, in which you put a dad rock music playlist of your choice on shuffle or go through your father's actual music collection, in order to find different songs, which you would then roll some dice to write a memory, fake or not, about the song relating to your father.

It's because he reminds me of that. Music isn't everything but it's especially in the relationship I have with my father, and how other people feel about their fathers. The purpose of Genesis is for him to be a character who, although does have his alien quirks? feels familiar and nice. That doesn't mean you won't die still, but it's more that he's not going to be the one to do it, and you will speed up your own demise by interacting with things.

When I say he doesn't care, it's more that he knows he can't do anything. He cares about you like a stranger, my care of a child, just because of the circumstances. I don't really know how to explain it, but I hope you understand what I mean.

[denniswilsonzine]

Made a thing - anyone want a sampler/test print preview copy of the zine?

Sent some stuff off to mixam (UK) to see how they looked like in print versus just being on my screen, mostly came out really good. One of only three copies to exist - ordered one test zine & they sent me two extra copies. Got one copy plus some promo merch on ebay right now ... * eta: somebody incredibly cool actually bought it omg squee

[and an almost identical copy is on ko-fi or available to trade. *** message me if you're interested in trading **** ]

*(sorry this took a ridiculously long time for me to finish writing and uploading all the images thanks to exhaustion & shitty internet - the ebay copy'll probably have sold by the time you see this post / it escapes being stuck in drafts, and I still haven't added image descriptions.)

...with not quite world wide postage via ebay's Global Shipping Programme, I'm keeping the best quality one & was thinking of doing a giveaway of the other* when I finally write the review of mixam's print quality I promised months ago, unless anyone wants to trade? - fake edit: *scratch that, copy #2 of #3 is now up in my ko-fi shop & I'll probably stick it on etsy, now I've seen people are actually interested in the ebay copy.(eta: somebody incredibly cool actually bought it omg squee)

https://ko-fi.com/s/483109b440 *** message me if you want to trade **** copy #2 has the same content as #3 shown below, just slightly different margin/bleed printing & Copy #2 of #3 written on the front cover. - it's 44 pages of a couple of articles and extracts of bits of issues 1 & two plus spreads from possible future issues (mostly graphics) inc. rough drafts etc.

Thoughts Of You a Dennis Wilson fanzine Mixam Zine test print no #1 Sept Nov 2023 Stapled, bleed recycled silk 130 GSM 44 pages #1 of 1 #3 of 3 by Jenna Appleseed (me)

https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/226162925472 includes coverage of virtual zine fests, inc KC Zine Con; earlier issue's cover art; collages by Valarie Simadis; zine promo; being featured on De_ziners instagram; Dennis performing Angel Come Home on The Midnight Special; a Dennis t-shirt, a Dennis song recommendation from The Horrors & tributes and art by Gino Dal Cin. Some of this is reprinted from pdf issues 1 & 2 and/or going to reappear in a proper print issue/future digital zine, revised/updated or with a better layout.

Colours are richer in print than they look in the photos. (it's impossible to get decent photos without glare or off colours) Promo stuff:

sticker is a 10cm x 3.3cm vinyl sticker showing the fanzine logo/header with a white border. (done with a stickermule discount before I realised they were as dodgy as fuck, sorry.)

Business cards are printed by Moo on card made from recycled cotton t-shirts & have three different designs on the front & fanzine info on the back.

Designs are: the zine logo, issue one's front cover, and a photo of a silver heart trinket engraved with Forever.

Three million photos showing all pages incoming, click keep reading to see them: One or two pics are NSFW for swearing

10 page feature from issue 2 about virtual zine fests inc. KC Zine Con & zine merch. (lots of trash pandas reading zines).

Two variations of a layout with a song recommendation from The Horrors, one'll end up in a zine when I work out which looks best. (background taken from the cover art for their album Skying)

A couple of Dennis image edits/layer blends & layout I designed. (these'll probably eventually appear in a proper finished zine)

Collages by Valarie Simadis from pdf issue 2. (background added by me from a stock illustration).

Zine links page & call for submissions /promo art - also from digital issue 2.

Two page feature on being featured on De_ziners instagram (from pdf issue 2)

Preview of a double page spread layout/graphic design/digital art/image editing for a future zine feature / themed issue on Dennis singing Angel Come Home on The Midnight Special.

Another couple of pages with added swearing - just need to make the text make sense and write the bloody rest of it.

Another double page spread layout design with a pull quote and a digital collage/image manipulation of Dennis singing Angel Come Home.

Page layout design experiments for Pacific Ocean Blue & Bambu that may eventually appear in a zine.

Double page spread of my photo of Dennis & Venice Surf (Dennis tee's from Bathroom Wall & Venice Surf tee was from Pep & Co at Poundland) - extract from an unofficial t-shirts feature in pdf issue 1.

Two different heart themed page designs from two different features in pdf issue 1.

A couple of digital collages/image manipulations based around Dennis' performance of Angel Come Home on The Midnight Special + lyrics from the Manic Street Preachers song You're Tender & Your Tired, that just seemed to fit so fucking well.) Probably need to rework/improve one of them if/before including in an actual issue.

Double page spread with a quote on the song + a screenshot of Dennis from youtube. (needs a little bit of tweaking before it's ready for a finished zine)

Sample credits page from issue one about Forever inspired art by Gino Dal Cin, & a sarcastic fanzine promo graphic I made.

Two versions of the same page so I could see how much of a difference the image resolution actually makes (remade the second one from the original photo - the higher res really does make it look better quality when printed) - the dpi notes won't be on the finished version (fucked up and had to replace a page in the files I'm sending to mixam to print a real physical issue one of the zine cos I got so used to having the dpi note over a lower res graphic I accidentally forgot it wasn't permanently meant to be there).

So i'm goin' away but not forever"

Back cover art by Gino Dal Cin, blue & silver (& pink) star background from a scrapbooking site.

[neoneggs]

hot take but now with vinyls getting more popular BRING DVDS BACK TOO

I am TIRED of only being able to watch my favourite shows and movies by having a subscription online. I hate having to pay for something I can't directly own and that could disappear at any second for the sake of money and tax cuts. I am all for pirating in this age since none of the money seems to be going towards the people that deserve it, but I hate having to go through multiple pirating sites trying to find the wildly popular show I want to watch because streaming sites don't make it available in my region, or because none of the pirating sites have it, when it would be so much easier to just buy a DVD. I miss going through the extra and deleted scenes after watching a movie, the director's discussions, fake bloopers, everything. I want to be able to display DVDs next to merch and books. I love the special creative boxes. I want my money to go directly to the creators and not have it go towards some rich CEO because streaming rules are weird. I want to actually be able to own the things I pay for and love and not be worried about it disappearing off the face of the internet because some stupid corporation wanted to save a couple hundred dollars by removing it off the playform