#book 1 rq

[imperatrice21]

I need a playlist for pre-betrayal Mareven

[choices-binglebonkus]

Since the very first book, Kaitlyn’s always been kind of a wild card, but this, I think, is the exact moment her character took a turn for the worse and never recovered.

The gang puts up flyers all around campus for Kaitlyn’s band performances, cheers her on and encourages her when she performs for the first time, the MC helps her reinvent herself with a makeover to boost her confidence, and the gang all goes out of their way to attend Kaitlyn’s band performances even though Natasha and Rachel openly and repeatedly treat them badly just to support their friend.

But then the MC gets knocked down in the mosh pit, Zig leaps to her defense, and then violence erupts all around her and the rest of the gang, through no fault of her own. And what’s Kaitlyn’s first concern after things get violent? Not the safety of the MC or her other friends, but the fact that her band might get blacklisted from the venue because of the fighting.

And then, she even goes so far as to accuse the MC of egging Zig on to get back at her because of the fight she and Abbie had…the fight that stemmed from Kaitlyn’s lack of receptiveness to the concerns Abbie expressed about her skipping classes after late nights with her band.

But somehow…the MC has never been interested in supporting her with the band. Right.

There are definitely worse characters out there…but shit, Kaitlyn grinds my gears like you wouldn’t believe.

[heavensincarnate1111]

for the sake of my own mental stability i chose to not only block out the entire calypso’s island chapter in botl but also just choose to believe that the magic of the island is what really was making percy so infatuated with calypso

bc what do you MEAN calypso is prettier than aphrodite… AND HE SAID THIS THREE DAMN CHAPTERS AFTER ANNABETH KISSED HIM… AND IN THE PREVIOUS BOOK HE JUST SAID APHRODITE LOOKED LIKE ANNABETH

therefore, for the sake of my own health, i chose to believe that whoever washes up on calypso’s island is just automatically immediately “in love” with her and that’s where the challenge of staying with her or leaving the island comes from

[airbenderedacted]

Well, yeah, she cured his sexism.

Commander Peepers was not the only male character in Wander Over Yonder to continue to treat Lord Dominator as exactly the same threat she was before after they found out she was a woman so that you could call him sexist.

[delicrieux]

. . . l'oeuf

˙⋆✮ summary. just another evening at henry's.

pairing. henry winter x f!reader warnings. smoking, swearing, mentioned drug use, bad aspirin use specifically, use of alcohol, +18 (p n v sex, no condom henry DOES NOT care, very minimal dirty talk), pretentiousness, an inkling of classicism, bunny™ wc. 6.9k ✧˖°.

author's note. happy october everyone ! i always wanted to write smth for the loml henry winter but i never had the patience to sit down and do it. well, now i did. this was written with prompt 1. thick, acrid smoke. feel free to rqs more for the prompty thingies! x . . . side note! the fic is named by this song since i listened to it while writing. you can draw a metaphor from it if willing

creds. hd., div.

mlist | buy me coffee ♡ྀ

it was at the start of october on that fateful senior year that you had found yourself in henry winter's illustrious townhouse. from the lacquered brazillian hardwood floorboards to the ivory plasterwork on the ceilings – every corner pertained a certain degree of finery that reflected poorly on the rest of its objects: a well-worn armchair perpetually stuck in henry’s physique and fraying at the edges, the trampled rug that snaked upstairs and held all of your secrets, the coffee table with too many wine stains. in the dim light, the dried rorschach looked like blood.

the present company consisted of six and was slowly dwindling. your dear friend francis, the only boy who had never cared to peek up your skirt in childhood tennis practice, was a moment from collapsing into himself like a weary, old star. holding a champagne coupe from which he exclusively drunk only campari, he had thrown himself over henry’s couch not unlike a discontent lead from a penny dreadful novel. his face kept twisting according to the sounds: bunny’s voice was met with pursed lips and a tightly shut eye (only one, closest to bunny’s person sat by the aforementioned coffee table), charles’ – with a look of defeated boredom, and in the odd bouts of silence and music, bliss.

you offered him a cigarette, and he barely managed to crane his neck to kiss the knuckles of a helping hand before he snatched it away and searched his pockets for a lighter.

sweet camilla sat by the fire, with her knees drawn to her chest. one black stocking was torn on the side, rippling up her calf and sneaking into her inner knee, an action bunny had noted and all had taken particular interest in. there had been a metaphor about literature resembling her glossy stockings – all that language and reference weaved into a fabric that stretched till it could no more, thus marking the end of innovation and intertextuality. a book can only fit so much, and as all of them cared for ancient greek only – a language that no one spoke, and so, could never refine past its perfect state – the topic soon waned in favor of more brandy.

bunny cowed a story about richard papen, the outsider that had joined their coterie, who was not present, as he had not been invited. he was a fine orator, had a specific sense of humor that, while not always understood, could charm an audience when fidgeted with enough. only bunny was too drunk, and his glass of whiskey kept spilling on his trousers till it left an undignified blotch crowned by cigarette ashes, which only painted him a blubbering buffoon. ‘the fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’ came to mind as you admired the embers dancing in the halo of his blond hair.

then, there was charles, drunk as always, who had opted to lay by camilla’s feet, the place where bunny’s drunken attempts of metaphor had landed him.

lastly, there was henry, your own personal virgil, who had not wanted you to come, but allowed it still. he looked tired from across the room, an arm thrown over the cushions of the armchair in which he sat. in his left hand he held a book, a cover and a title too out of frame for your eyes to see; amber reflected in his wiry glasses, the color of his brandy bottle (half empty) before the orange glow of the fire burned it copper. a plume of cigarette smoke curled into the ceiling from his two fingers. only he could have full concentration among the chaotic symphony in the living room.

the record spun to silence, and you quickly abated your seat on the windowsill to pad to the cabinet and change the vinyl. the collection of classics had not increased since your last visit, which was roughly a week ago, and it had not changed since henry moved out the dorms during the winter of your junior year. there were chopin’s nocturnes and etudes, beethoven’s piano sonatas, and wagner’s tristan and isolda, just to name a few. something lulling, quiet. you picked debussy and placed the needle. lilting, soft and steady, like you supposed love would feel.

instantly, you were met with bunny’s ire.

“no, no,” a wave and a body too weak to stop you. you ensured he was gifted your most sly smile, “no, woman, put on somethin’, somethin’ grand,” a larger wave, like a poorly coordinated conductor, he smacked his hand too close to francis’ head. a groan from charles, as if he had grown nauseous from watching the motions, “somethin’ for me and charlie here,”

charles tried to turn away in his discontent, yet did not manage. camilla, concerned, laid a hand on his shoulder, “should we go? i think we should head home.”

“see?” bunny’s accusing tone found you once more, “you’re scaring the guests. put on some real music. like the... the...” he trailed off, lighting another cigarette. for good luck, one could imagine, “like goddamn— listen to led zeppelin, man! the rolling stones!”

you glanced to henry and found yourself surprised. a shared look.

“no such things in our humble repertoire,” you stated.

“mile davis, at least?”

“no,”

“i don’t believe you,”

“you’re free to check for yourself.”

amidst this small argument, which was much too common when dealing with bunny, camilla had somehow managed to wrestle charles into standing on his own two feet. unstable, he leaned onto his sister, the added weight making her stagger.

“goodness, take care of charles,” bunny whined, though his complaints never amounted to more than simple sulking. you chose not to pay them much mind.

it was henry that helped, carefully balancing his book on the armrest and coming to take charles from camilla’s embrace.

“should i drive you home?” he asked.

camilla shook her head, en route to retrieve her red scarf and new coat, “no, no, we’ll call a taxi.”

it was always mildly fascinating watching the two interact. camilla, never able to meet his gaze directly and for too long, and henry, who only ever extended wordless aid without prompt or reason to her only. what had she done to earn such favor was beyond you – beyond everyone, perhaps – but you were certain you weren’t the only one that saw this careful act of piety and kindness.

you observed them shuffle out after moments on the telephone, camilla’s hand ghosting henry’s arm, or grazing the bend of his elbow, and only when they disappeared past the large door to wait for the taxi did you look away.

loving henry winter was a sisyphean task, unworthy of the effort which it required. you thought yourself too smart for it, and thus, never cared to entertain the notion, not even when he kissed you.

you caught bunny staring at you: not scrutinizing, not calculating – simply staring. a curious leer that often fell on you after some semblance of mirth had worn down. almost shy, somewhat longing.

“this richard of yours,” you began, helping yourself to henry’s lucky strike. out of all the brands that you had smoked, this was the most bitter and always left a tart taste in the back of your throat. you craved it, “papen, was it?”

“yup,” bunny mumbled into his glass.

“and how is he?” your gaze jumped from him to francis.

“poor,” bunny said.

“californian,” francis tacked on.

“but he pretends he isn’t,” bunny continued.

“californian?” your brows rose. the smell, the taste – too powerful, almost choking.

“no, no,” bunny shook his head, disoriented for a moment, “rich. pretends to be rich. see, i didn’t tell you this, but,” and he reached for henry’s cigarettes, too, even if his own pack laid abandoned, two-three left untouched. he did this, at times, this odd mimicry: you smoked, he smoked what you did, you drank, he drank what you did, you decided a getaway to italy was your dream destination for a week and later learned he had haggled henry into buying tickets for the two of them, “but i, you know me: never judge a book by its cover, i say. invited him to dinner. the usual place, the one on-”

“god,” francis winced, and if he could move, surely he’d flee, “stop talking.”

“the lady asked, am i to deny her now? i thought he wouldn’t show, but he does, doesn’t he? with a goddamned tweed jacket, like i wouldn’t notice,” he hiccupped mid-explanation, the liquor long congealed into his system, “and, you know, me, i know people. i know people. i see them for what they are, and i knew he was a no good cheat from a mile away, but hey,” a straight spine, a bit proud, “i think to myself, you know what, old man, i’m gonna give this guy a chance. pop’s always-”

“aspirin,” francis interjected, this time directed at you, “bring me some, would you, juliet?”

you snorted, “a moment,”

“thank you, desdemona. you’re a midsummer night’s dream,”

“she’s from othello,”

“my point stands.”

you sauntered off into henry’s kitchen and scoured his cupboards for painkillers. the layout of this place you knew too well – perhaps, even, if you closed your eyes, you could discern each obstacle and map it in front of your eyes with the grace and certainty of a guidebook. you did just that.

behind you, a sudden coldness pierced through the humidity and a door shut harshly. the influx of fresh air was a brief slap to the face.

it’s been silent for a while now.

“what are you doing?” henry’s voice, not close, yet not too far. always observing at a distance, since closeness was never his intention. henry winter. what a fitting name.

“looking for aspirin.”

the tick of an unseen clock.

“top drawer,” there was no urgency; something you didn’t understand was what made him hurry to answer, “i hid them there. bunny keeps stealing my entire cabinet.”

your eyes fluttered open, “my, my. what a snitch,”

“don’t give him the aspirin,”

“it’s for francis,”

“very well.”

an impasse. you closed the cabinet and thought against bringing water with you, knowing it’s unneeded.

“may i?” henry asked, and when you turned to look at him, he was as always – unbreakable, unmovable. expectant, perhaps, his heavy gaze a familiar pressure upon your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, your swollen mouth (from biting, not being kissed).

“they’re yours,” you said easily, turning the cap and spilling a few into the bed of your palm as he approached, “here.”

to make matters harder, there’s but a foot of space between the two of you. the smallest separation, every part of him and every part of you entangled into one odd constellation. an immensity of motion before him and an immensity of energy after.

“water?”

“whiskey.”

“is it also hidden?”

“no.”

so you retrieved him a glass, and then the bottle, and lastly you poured the amount enough to swallow in one gulp. when he took and drank, and you watched his adam’s apple bob, you wondered, briefly and hazily, was your act in any way similar to camilla’s. a star that constantly drew him into her orbit.

“you didn’t leave,” he uttered quietly, tired eyes flicking to the maw of the kitchen opening. down the foyer, the firelight danced. bunny’s voice rose in a toast, no doubt to shake francis out of his stupor.

“i did,” you said, a slow smile curling, “what you see before you is a specter. the delirious imaginings of an impoverished mind.”

“ridiculous,” the quirk of his eyebrows: mock-offended.

“amusing,” the narrow of your eyes: contagious, “was everything my spirit foretold the same as you saw it unfold?”

weariness. you looked for it and found it easy enough. his fingers flexed, his tongue went behind his teeth. the cogs turned. for all his genius, henry was too susceptible to fable and entirely too superstitious. he could ward himself off it well, yet when his inhibitions were down, there was a hint of something else, a spark of pious faith in the impossible, what not might come next. he kept looking at you for an extended moment, until the corner of his mouth, minutely, drew up into a not-quite-smile.

“hermia!” came francis’ voice from the other room, “i’m dying.”

henry said nothing.

you expected bunny drunkenly swinging an almost empty bottle around to try and cheer up francis (it rarely worked, unless it was wine), and yet, he wasn’t there. the living room felt very big, somehow, devoid of him and the makings of his gullible heart.

“and where is bun?” you questioned, almost scolding.

“bathroom,” francis succeeded sitting up, yet only just.

you heard henry curse under his breath. he disappeared, and soon you heard the continents of a stomach emptying down the hall and henry’s monotone behind a closed door.

“time to end this sabbath, me thinks,” you said. francis took the pills with a fresh glass of campari, nose scrunching from the taste.

“d’you think henry could drive me home?” francis asked.

“do you trust him with your life?”

“do you think he’d let me die?”

“depends,”

“no. i’ll cab it,”

“wise decision.”

henry returned, seemingly exhausted from his small adventure. no one followed after.

“bun?” you asked again, which seemed to displease him. he only shook his head. passed out, then. unfortunate, yet expected. if bunny could somehow gain authority over all of henry’s things – even the minute ones, the ones that don’t matter and exist in the peripherals without henry’s notice – he would. it was the same reason francis once insisted that bunny had been in love with you.

the incident occurred during your first year of college in early november. a rather somber and chilly day with leaves sticking to wet asphalt and stone walls amidst the rainy season. a monday. bunny had broken his ankle and complained terribly about it, and henry, who had become his caretaker, was sick of it and instead abhorred him. by accident and complete mischance, the handling of bunny corcoran had fallen onto your graceful shoulders, and in a single day – full of obsolete complaints and impulsive questions – the theorized affection was born.

if there was a way in which bunny’s countenance had changed in your presence, it was lost on you, for your attention, at the time, was solely pilfered by charles. he was, back then, the most handsome of the greek class, and oddly enough, the only one pleasant, thus you sought his favor. but charles never returned your fondness, no matter how minuscule it could be, and he never gave the impression of fleeting interest. only sometimes, when he thought you would not catch him, he would stare at you for a bit too long. you never got to figure out what he had thought in those moments.

instead, you figured yourself an actor – a pretty one at that – and decided to ignore this indelicate sort of charm and pursue a new mark. there were many, of course, plenty of faces to consider, yet the outcome was always the same. as it were, they were all terribly boring and reminded you greatly of the peers you’ve encountered in private schools, the self-proclaimed intellectuals of the new age that had too much time and too much heartbreak on their hands. good looks aside, not the slightest hint of culture nor comprehension, just money and nothing to show for it.

and then there was henry, of course, so quintessentially different that his existence, still, was hard to define. something outside the realm of you. something above or beyond, or perhaps below – always somewhere you could not reach. there was an irrecoverable arrogance to him and in his aloof demeanor. an inviolable space that never invited others.

yes, there had to be some appeal to the strangeness of him, yet never could you put your finger on what exactly it was. at least, not immediately. at first sight, though, there were more poetic reasons to it – of the tragic and of the divine kind, yet that was no truth but some novel-born whim, a pointless obsession, some meager infatuation. an involuntary fetish. he had not wanted you, which only made it so that you wanted him in turn. it wasn’t an ugly thing – it simply was.

he must’ve known. henry always seemed to possess the knowledge of things you had never dared to question or to think twice of. or, perhaps, maybe not: but, despite your inability to identify the cause of it, there was a certain change to your disposition upon entering his shared room. one, maybe, akin to the sudden fear brought by dark enclosed spaces, though a bit more subtle and complex.

it was, ironically, a winter’s night.

when you phoned the same taxi and requested it’s return, francis spoke in a hazy murmur, sluggishly trying to shrug on the coat you brought him, “god, i really need a cigarette.”

“hm?”

“do you see mine anywhere?”

a rueful search, hands grabbing the scattered glass and hardbound that littered the surface of the coffee table. a valiant attempt to move the couch cushions and dip fingers into the cracks.

“no,”

“well, fuck me,”

henry offered his, but francis refused. the living room lit up in that thick, acrid smoke anyway.

the foyer echoed with your footsteps. outside the townhouse, rain had started again. a few drops at first, tapping the windows, before quickly it grew and gained weight. soon, it was battering against the glass.

with your scarf in your hands you suddenly found yourself unsure what to do with it. the taxi was coming and it was time to go home and plead to a higher power for reprieve from the headache you knew would cripple you in the morning. perhaps, an afternoon tomorrow to mull around, dazed. yet there was no respite in any of that. you realized, then, with this abrupt trepidation, that the cause of your discomfort, or the cause that exacerbated it, was within this confided space. a chasm-deep disquiet, like an open mouth of a ravine, dark and shadowy, or the pull of a tide at sea, which was, as they say, irresistible to even the most levelheaded.

somewhat uneasily, you lingered by the coat hanger, and when francis ambled over, tripping over his own two feet, he downed the rest of his campari and shoved the glass into your useless hands. then, he kissed your cheek, quick and wet, before ripping the door open and shoving it closed behind you, hence halting your escape.

the house was deafened, and your palms itched. the overwhelming urge to twiddle with your scarf became unbearable, or it was because a pair of eyes bore into you from the depths of the room. the closest thing you’ve ever considered to a tangible aura: the smell of ozone and rain water and tobacco.

“don’t suppose he’s waiting in the rain, is he?” you said.

“no, i don’t think he is.”

it didn’t make sense, none of what happened afterward – the decision to face him instead of making off into the chilling night. your arms crossed in a quiet and peculiar motion, clutching the coupe a bit too tight.

“whiskey?” henry offered, and you felt like the silly ingénue in some high-brow noir thriller donning all that cashmere by the door, “or bourbon.”

“fine.”

a crease of his eyebrow – the sole indication of surprise. your jacket found its rightful place on the rack along with that dreaded scarf. hesitance was unfamiliar to you, as you had not known it growing up – neither a sense of propriety nor a loss of footing. the dandy act had been adopted and perfected to such a degree that to relinquish the mask itself was oddly relieving, the discomfort born merely by knowing that francis was aware of your unusual situation and the upcoming events that would take place once the theater was done. there was a brief thought to how henry might’ve perceived you then. perhaps the removal of a layer of pretense might’ve intrigued him, if anything.

you remained at a slight distance and watched him traverse his domain, stepping around the askew items left behind by bunny and a bottle of gin haphazardly upended by charles, warm by the fire. there was an anomalous sort of patience to him. the silence was an abrasion. so often, you found yourself chattering to fill the void, even with other men who took the shape of strangers.

“there’s quite a storm brewing,” you said, only to be met with more silence. when your words simpered, the feeling they left was inexplicably ominous. ‘all that is transitory is but a symbol,’ yet only a bad poet would dare to draw a soliloquy from henry’s figure by the flames.

thus, you sat down on the couch, still warm from francis, and held up the beloved champagne coupe. henry’s hand did not tremble as it poured, but your fingers quivered when his attention fell onto you.

“is it good?”

you never felt the alcohol, only the burning in the back of your throat.

“very,”

he found himself beside you, not too close. the distance was not unlike orpheus’ journey, or so it appeared in the dim firelight – the familiar pangs of the unwilling, the sudden, selfish urge of wanting to see him in his entirety, his visage unhindered

“may i?” you asked, meaning, of course, his cigarette. he acquiesced easily. the only telltale of his everlasting unbothered mien: his focus had, and always seemed to be, too acute. it was enough to unnerve anyone. flattering, perhaps, if only you could tell what he was thinking, but you never could.

in your lap, the half-empty coupe. you left a smudge of your lipstick on the cigarette butt. henry inhaled. it was not unlike a kiss.

“francis mentioned you didn’t want to see me,” you said.

“i didn’t,” he responded.

“a lie, was it then?”

“you assume to know?”

“yes.”

another drag. smoke parted his mouth, slow as molasses and heavy as clouds.

“you’ve changed,” you said.

conversation with henry had always been difficult, before and after your frequent follies in the dark. if you did speak, it was never about one another, or anything that resided past skin and bone, nestled somewhere in the marrow, only felt. in instances where you did find common ground it was only ever art – literature, specifically, and when he was in a good mood, painting. henry only had one fascination and refused to entertain others; here lied his fatal flaw. thus, in a crowd of three and more, you could exchange remarks that would seem and sound important but held no real meaning.

“what sort of change have you noticed?” henry murmured. the lighting cast shadows. his hands twitched.

you were not sure, as you remembered him in much more detail and color. here, ashen-faced and obscured, all you saw was the ghost of his image, as though he had grown morose in a way that a single season could not alter. the greek class had often suffered for the aesthetic – self-imposed punishments of grandeur and excess that to everyone outside their circle seemed quite ridiculous, along with their dark clothes and mysterious miens and enigmatic jokes. some said they were haunted or blessed, but none envied them. alas.

troubled is the closest you could find, though if you were to voice it, he might take you for a child. it was never good to seek out his vulnerability. he would say you could never find it, and, inevitably, it would end up being the truth. henry wasn’t good at love. no one of were.

you shrugged, “you’ve become quiet.”

“am i, now?”

“more so than you’ve been,”

“perhaps you’ve just gotten better at listening,”

“unlikely,”

henry cocked his head. his hand, once again, twitched and there was an urge to reach out and grasp his fingers – some sort of absolution or at least a consolation for something neither one of you might’ve cared to mention. never did the man in front of you appear unsure, yet somehow, despite his best effort to the contrary, you felt a similar trepidation of an undefined thing.

henry was impossible to read. not just a mystery, but undeciphered in ways so beyond the mundane. over the years, you had collected enough clues to form a humble dictionary, yet much of what was missing could only be determined through his own misfortune and complacency – things which would, then, by nature and by fate, stray into your arms.

it did not matter, not entirely, at least. you did not love henry, but you thought that camilla did, and he, in turn, her. once you exhausted your inspection, perhaps you would pass that glossary to her, though you doubted that she would ever find any use for it.

“well,” henry said, “i suppose that’s to be expected. anything else?”

“would you enjoy a dissection?”

henry hummed, perhaps in agreement or curiosity, but it was very possible that he thought you foolish.

“no need,” he said, “yours is transparent.”

“really?” you countered, “they never are. people, i mean.”

“who are you thinking of?”

your mind drifted to bunny, likely curled on the cold tiles of the bathroom. with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and tie loosened, there was the picture of one not withering away but merely on the incline of a steep and lonely hill. all quiet in the dark of a windowless room from which he couldn’t even turn his head and see the stars.

it felt as though he would wake soon and interrupt. his presence always breached spaces he did not occupy, and the anticipation of his arrival always lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. perhaps bunny would always exist in the shadowy corner-room between you and henry, because, if what francis said was true, henry was the first to know of it and had you, still.

you wondered if he regretted it, if he felt like brutus sticking the first knife into caesar’s rib, closest to the heart. you considered asking: in that moment, the urge felt insurmountable. instead, you said, “a little bit of everyone.”

inclined, you caught his gaze. an abysmal color and a disorienting shade, as deep and gloomy as the woods surrounding mount cataract.

“and me?”

“of course,” you smiled and slid a bit closer, “it’s not like you to ask. have you become sentimental?”

“not exactly,” his eyes moved to his hands. then, the flecks in the fireplace, the piles on the floor, “i’ve been thinking.”

“care to elaborate?”

“no,” he said. you understood his need for privacy, and a small part of you could appreciate his effort, or maybe, rather, that you got something of an answer at all. he did, occasionally, tend to disappear in thought. he remained, despite his reluctance, sitting with you. this, in a way, spoke more to you than the words that could never leave his mouth.

“this weather makes a body wistful,” you told him, “and the greek have always liked their tragedies.”

he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth before lighting another cigarette, “what do you know of greek?”

always the same argument. always the same contradiction. your attraction was tempestuous, and so, it should have surprised you neither the sudden bite or the wicked sense of amusement.

“all that any student would, naturally,”

“so, nothing,”

“i suppose,” you would not admit, for he would win, “henry,”

something in his posture betrayed him, but it was not his eyes, nor his tone, “yes?”

you were close then, much closer than you were moments ago. his lips thinned in a brittle, noncommittal line and his eyes drooped – more of a warning than anything.

“are you going to kiss me?” you asked.

he wanted to, he must’ve, for it had been the only sensible action – you always pressed for what would hurt least. to drown and swallow poison. it was a favorite, and, for some reason, one he allowed, like an agreement reached. to your knowledge, he only ever let himself indulge in you.

henry only leaned in, which was enough for you. his mouth, a second, not any less tantalizing than the first. and you had kissed him with a brazen softness, enough that his hands snaked to grasp the back of your neck. another hit. the smoke and ash settled deep in your lungs. you had pushed it out in a groan when he dropped his hands to your thighs, pressing hard and confident as he had on those nights when you found each other too lonely. the ache he created was wonderful.

you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled it until it untucked. he swallowed and whispered in a language you were familiar with but couldn’t speak, and lifted your skirt.

you kept the cigarette between your teeth as he mouthed down your jaw and neck. his finger traced the skin at the back of your knee and that tickling spot right below your ribs. goosebumps rose and followed his touch. he nipped at the crook of your neck and dragged you onto his lap.

“you are dressed far too heavily, and terribly,” you heard him say, and when his lips found the shell of your ear, you could not stifle the shiver. the whole room felt claustrophobic, hot and steamy, like the aftermath of a scalding bath. your breaths grew labored. you closed your eyes against it and clawed into his arm.

henry said, again, this time more slowly and with a dull emphasis, “terribly.”

“how dare you insult my taste,”

“would you allow for a remediation of my sins?”

“luckily, i’m in an agreeable mood.”

henry’s own sigh was long and somewhat labored, as though a great pressure had been taken off him. and his hands flexed, moving up and down your back. a rare instance, to find him restless. you could admire this in private.

the press of lips to your neck. the collarbone, jutting sharp in the firelight.

there was the urge, sudden and quite novel, to caress his face, cup his cheek, graze the edge of the scar of the eye that’s colder than its twin, that shrouds you in a mist. such an act was outlawed, naturally, thus, the opportunity came and went, carried away on a drafting wind of smoke. an irredeemable misfortune, and you flicked the cigarette into your abandoned coupe.

“are you comfortable?” the gentle cadence of his voice sent a wave through the warmest depths of your abdomen.

“yes.”

henry, having brushed away your stockings, stroked at the insides of your thighs. there was a light feeling in your head, an almost dizzying sway. a subtle rocking, like boats at port, from where the two of you were perched. his digits dug into the firm meat. beneath his hands, a stretch of burning skin and sinew. muscle clenched and quivered, “terribly inconvenient, by the way.”

“how do you mean?”

“all the layers,” he muttered.

“good,”

“never good,”

and then, suddenly: “are you wet?”

“if you touched me properly, you could tell,”

henry ignored your response. his hand climbed upward, and found a place between the gusset and the middle seam, rubbing, testing.

“recently,” you said, “i’ve become fascinated with joseph cornell.”

“you’re stalling,” henry informed you without inflection, slipping a finger through the damp center. a harsh noise of pleasure left you when his tongue slid between your lips. one, then two, circling and sinking with the utmost delicacy.

“why? are you not curious to hear what i think of his boxes?” you managed, halfway.

another stroke. his thumb rubbing, slow and considerate, in the spot that makes your toes curl, tight and demanding. when his eyes opened and found yours, it was almost comical – his fingers in you, mouth and mind on a completely different path, yet the connection was there all the same. even more so, while trying to be detached, fumbling over buttons and laces.

“no,”

“you might learn something,”

he quirked a brow, “you truly wish to waste time talking?”

“aren’t you?”

“i am taking an assessment of your willingness to submit,”

“are you certain it’s not the other way around?”

henry rarely responded with malice; each action was carefully devised and, in conjunction, quite merciless. in this case, he dropped his hand from the vee of your legs and tugged at his shirt collar. the emptiness was startling, as was the feeling of tension that coiled tightly in your gut. then, he grabbed his drink and sipped from the sparkling glass. petty revenge, something he always assured was beneath him.

sensing defeat, you decided to placate him. after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slipped onto the ground and knelt.

“henry,” you began, and reached for the fly of his pants. the outline of his cock was obvious beneath the smooth fabric, thick and promising, “home ruler,” in one instance of drunken curiosity, the lot of you agonized the meaning of your names, that perhaps they, somehow, unknowingly dictated your fate, “unwilling to shed his crown. is the head not heavy? most kings lost theirs, you know.”

“flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“folly, then,” you replied, dragging the flat of your palm across his groin and taking pleasure in the strained hiss, “are you going to let me do as i please?”

“i think that is,” at the peak of his inhale, you reached into his trousers and curled your fingers around his stiff cock, “quite apparent.”

you grinned, lazy but triumphant, thumbing the blunt ridge. smudging the dribble of white at the leaking head and reveling in his restrained reactions: the minute tremors, the twitch of his jaw, a gasp caught in his throat. you would have kissed him, again. his face might’ve twitched, something uncontrollable that would’ve given away his longing, if only he hadn’t pushed it down.

with a slow pump, your hand traveled. the size was admirable, familiar, nearly to the point of nostalgia. henry had touched more parts of your body than some of the lovers you took as an earnest attempt for passion. you had begged him once, half-gone, half-wild with what you thought was need and impatience, to only fuck you – without his clever mouth and his careful hands, but he hadn’t said yes, no, had only grabbed your jaw and pressed a sucking kiss to the soft and sensitive skin beneath your ear. a promise, almost. and in a way, it had been.

“you remember?”

henry’s voice snapped you to attention, and when you looked up, his expression matched his darkened eyes, intense. something flared hot and needy in you, and with it, the desire to be open and dripping for him. he curled a hand in the small hairs on the back of your neck, stroking the skin there and, even briefly, allowed himself an indulgence in the pleasure he could get from a single touch, and rocked his hips.

“vividly,” you told him.

the flames, behind you, cast him entirely in silhouette, and his shadow projected forward and rose tall, stretched. a ruler, indeed.

his chest moved slow and purposefully, and when he released your hair, the lack of contact felt like a shock to the system. his hand closed around your forearm, “come here.”

the tone, hoarse and hushed and so quietly demanding, startled you, and you stood up so quickly that your head spun. henry placed his hands on your hips, steadying, ushering you back to where you belonged.

“just there.”

legs, parted, framing his waist. fabric, bunched between your thighs. breathing, slowed. a firm, calming weight, pinning you down. the firelight glinted in his eyes.

“henry,” you called. and the only thing to signal his movement was a bob of his adam’s apple. the cufflinks of his sleeves swayed and flickered. he hummed, neither affirmation nor disagreement and entered you with a grunt.

more. skin flushed. eyes crinkled and tightened. more. nails curled and scrabbled for purchase.

there, your name on his lips. it was disorienting – not so much a cry, or a whisper, but something between the two. henry always spoke carefully, as though each word should carry the most weight, so each syllable, in turn, he would construct and cut, meticulous and mathematical. but here, breathless and wanting, they rolled out in a steady litany, never faltering.

all fire and scorching, the pitch of it high and needy. to thrust and bruise, the idea fizzed bright and brilliant at the apex of your spine. with each snap of his hips, a part of him carved a piece of you out, and each ragged noise shook loose a piece of your skin. it would fit him perfectly. then he would slide right into those hollow spaces that swelled and throbbed, expanding beyond tolerance. in moments like these, you loved him – his body, his touch, his face, everything that could not be articulated.

“please,” you begged him, trying to curl around the ache, “i want-”

“i know, i know,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head. his hair, you noticed, had lost its immaculate shape, wild and frazzled by your fingers. your heart swelled and contracted: you wanted to do it again, over and over until his whole countenance resembled nothing more than that of a ravaged man. your power, the only thing you had over him. henry closed his eyes.

“spread your legs a little wider,”

a moan slipped when his tongue flicked and curled against the side of your neck, wet and sloppy. the sweet roll of his hips, his fingers pulling at the buttons of your attire and squeezing the fleshy swell of your buttocks. it was always too much.

you licked your lip, shaking when his teeth gently pinched. and, for a moment, the smell of pine permeated the room. as though it were his own sweat and the heady musk of his natural scent, and not a waning bottle of cologne.

“hold onto me,” henry whispered and allowed for nothing more, driving the movement out of your hands. the tempo spiraled upward. at the center, the tension was building. there was a moment of vertigo.

and it was easy enough, as things had always been between the two of you, to ignore the disjointed voices in the back of your mind. how when you two first kissed, it’d been without grace. how the rain fell, trickled, all around you, drowning the dryness in your throat. how the next day, he asked if you would regret what you’d done. and here, now, a different but striking feeling: the warm haze brought on by alcohol, his palms were hot, slick with sweat, his belt digging into you.

henry grunted and swore to a god neither of you had put much faith in. the flush on his cheeks was impossible not to reach out and touch, his eyebrow scarred with the same sort of smooth texture and fading red, his lashes, long and fine, flickering against the high edge of his cheekbones. i love you, you wanted to tell him, but the high struck you ruthlessly, turning you to liquid.

in the aftermath of this brief paradise, you shared a look.

“i still despise this weather,” you said.

henry’s mouth quirked. and what had been the impulsive dalliances of two desperate people became, once more, two lonely creatures with enough distance between to fill one of henry’s beloved epics. the quiet, in the wake of catharsis, was rather terrifying, and the clatter outside – the rain, the wind, and the cold – almost accusatory. he offered you a cigarette.

you took it without thank you and let him light it.

“should i drive you home?” he offered, voice raspy. his shirt had wrinkles and his collar sat funny. the skin beneath was pink, and there was the barest mark where you had sunk your teeth or dug a nail too hard. you bit the end of the filter, watching the flame waver before rising into ash.

“you’re drunk,” it felt necessary to remind him, though it never stopped him.

“do you want me to drive you home?” he asked again. a long pull and a thin veil of smoke.

“yes,” you said, “i’ll go wake bunny.”

“no,”

“no?”

“stop it.”

“stop what?”

“speaking of him,”

“has he done something?”

silence.

“henry?”

“leave it,” he said, but his tone was tight.

“alright. i’ll get my coat, then,”

“of course,” he murmured, standing slowly. you shouldn’t have seen him put his hand against the wall to steady himself, as though any drunken spell had fled, and with it, his equilibrium. the movement was both conscious and contrived, a fact of necessity, and not like the rest of him, braced by his surroundings and firm in stature. a self-constructed illusion, designed to project a set of attributes meant to create the atmosphere of authority. he embodied it well, but he was still, stripped of the mythos, simply human.

you watched him settle and raise his head with a gentle exhale. a mere lift of his shoulders, and he resembled a man in control, content, satisfied – everything henry was, and yet, within the façade, you could see the truth of his discomfort, recently, and without fault, brought upon by an uttered name.

in the upcoming months, you would understand and wonder if there was something you could have done or said to warn him of a future that was inevitable. no matter how many nights you had spent distressing over this question, the answer would always make itself obvious.

there was nothing you could have ever done.

thank you for reading !

[patchiko]

Your AK HC were on POINT 👌👌👌 literally everything you said was so right. It was really refreshing seeing this kind of take on AK Jason.

AK Jason is a cat that’s been feral for most of its life and you just gotta approach him gently and be patient 🥺

I also agree… this boi is a VIRGIN 👏 this man had no game and wasn’t even seeking anything (cause 1) his mind is entirely focused on one goal atm and 2) all his trauma 😞 ) he’s prob like a deer in the headlights for any first time physical intimacy wether that’s holding hands or sleeping together (poor baby)

I want to give AK Jason a nice blanket, a cup of tea and his favorite book 🥺 I doubt it would help a lot though. I just want to shower this boi with love

literally jumping up and down. for so long i was nervous to post my takes on him hcishskshd.

psps also i see yall in my inbox dw imma get to you all :]

but your so right, ak!jay is so a feral dog/cat to me. I say dog because of his implication throughout the arkham comics and mainstream ones, that robin to jason was seen as bruces lap dog.

So i’ve always seen AK!jay as a “runner dog.” You know? The type that sees an open door and runs out of the house, wont come back for nothin.

But feral cat so describes his personality, the just standing and watching, and slowly warming up, is so him coded ,, anon ur soOOO right.

nsfw under da cut (light / not detailed :] ) ((also soft and warm hehe))

ill die on this hill,, he had NO interest in sex for so long, barely slipped his mind with training. Only got off to break off steam and he would just take his ass to bed.

and like anon said, even for basic things like holding your hand on his shoulder he gets so tense.

Subconsciously he’s waiting for something bad to happen, for it to be a trick, so it takes a really long time for him to weed those distrusts out :(

luv him soo bad needa hold his hand and feed him food.

his first time hes so quiet and stiff. hes not mentally freaking out, but again subconsciously hes expecting something bad to happen.

he feels like theres something under his skin tingling, the sensation that made him pull back many times before.

but nothing bad is happening, and it takes him awhile to accept that too.

The possibility has never seemed completely unreal to him, but really experiencing that kind of intimacy and love was so surreal to him.

When its over, he’s looking at you with big blown out eyes, and his mind is so quiet, in a good way, but most importantly that fog, that darkness he has felt for so long isn’t there. He feels so real and present in the moment.

He’s touching your skin, actually feeling and processing the way you feel against him, the texture of the cloth you two lay on, and your face.

Falls asleep, doesn’t dream. a peaceful night. he wakes up, the fogs back but he feels a little lighter when he walks :)

ak!jay dealing with everyone (including you and i my friend) thats in his tumblr tags ((link))

my rq are open im so happy people wanna hear me ramble abt his crazy ass fuckdjskbdkssndj !!!

[kaixserzz]

The Fox, the Crow, and the Bunny.

ੈ♡˳ Il Dottore and Gn!Child!Reader *ೃ༄

ੈ♡˳ 2.4k words ┊ Fluff *ೃ༄

ੈ♡˳ Masterlist | JLM Masterlist *ೃ༄

author's note ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

something sweet. dedicated to @idyllic-affections thanks for writing my kaveh rq n this series is inspired by ur acc.. realized i strayed from the real purpose of this fic and made it too long, so just think of it as a 2 in 1 special lol,, (also hi sorry for using dottore he's like my muse and i love writing him) also i hope yall get the meaning of this shit lmao (ref to the scara quest tale)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ cw: strictly platonic/familial, reader is 8 years old, basic dottore warnings, mentions of death, dissecting animals and injuries, implied dottolone (barely), a little ooc but it's canon to me

Dottore's office was once a sacred chamber inside the Fatui headquarters.

While not relatively as pristine as his laboratory, amidst the chaos, there was order. Everything was in its designated place, even though his desk was a nightmare to whoever laid eyes on it (spilled coffee too busy to clean, now dried onto the wood of his table, piles, and piles of documents and papers stacked haphazardly on one another, a disarray of pens and pencils occupying every available niche, and vials filled with who-knows-what dangerously teetering on the edge).

Hazards lurked at every turn within his office, presenting a far-from-presentable façade that seemingly clashed with his position as the 2nd of the 11th Fatui Harbingers. Yet, one might ponder, does the doctor truly concern himself with such matters?

No, not at all. He doesn't have the time to clean everything or keep them in such an organized state. He simply knows everything is in place, and the mess scarcely holds him back (he hires maids once in a while, when the mess gets too much, and in 1 out of 5 maids he hires only makes it out alive).

Yet, what truly imbued this room with a sense of sanctity? For within these walls, he unearthed his genuine solace and tranquility.

In this space, silence reigned supreme. Isolation was his companion, a cherished serenity he embraced. Here, his thoughts danced, inventions took form, and ideas flowed onto paper alongside intricate equations. Occasionally, he'd pass out on his desk and drool all over his papers. This room stood as a shelter inviolable, reserved solely for those few instances of urgency or the presence of a fellow Harbinger.

All other members of the Fatui instinctively bid their time, patiently awaiting his emergence from the sanctum of his office before venturing to approach him. For within its confines, the Doctor was impervious to disruption. No one disturbs the Doctor.

That was before you came along, of course.

The office, ill-suited for a child of your tender years, harbored a minefield of hazards. Within its walls lay various artifacts, concoctions, and intricate machinery, a perilous realm unfit for the innocent curiosity of youth. Regrettably, your presence inadvertently disrupted the serene harmony that had long enveloped this space, unsettling the Doctor who, by nature, dislikes abrupt shifts and deviations from what he was used to.

When you first arrived in his office (he didn't want you inside of it, after all, he wasn't exactly fond of children, but he had no choice) you were immediately injured after stepping onto a shard of glass that Dottore has completely ignored. You tried your very best not to cry for the sake of not irritating Dottore further, but he wasn't very gentle with your wound either.

He took note of keeping his vials away from the edge of his table.

Then a bunch of books topples over you. He puts them into the shelves now, and you helped him organize by using the Dewey Decimal System, to which you had read from a book.

Then, while he was explaining his recent idea (rather enthusiastically) to you, his hand accidentally slammed against his files and flew straight to your face. You also helped him organize his papers.

And then it was cleaning his desk, offering him DIY pencil holders you've made just for him. You've also invented a mug that prevents the liquid inside from spilling (he thinks it was a rather brilliant invention, he no longer has to worry about spilling on his desk).

And then it was putting his rather precarious possessions somewhere else, outside the vicinity of his office and far away from your grasp.

You were very eager to help him in any way possible, and for a child, you quite enjoyed receiving chores. Yet, your contentment was uncomplicated, drawn from the privilege of being granted entry to his treasure trove of knowledge, replete with a limitless collection of books, materials, and tools.

Dottore always thought that you'd be such a nuisance to him once you entered his office and sully the peace he has always known within his office's enclosed haven.

But he didn't expect to welcome your presence at all, on such short notice, too. (Deep inside, he felt a strange warmth in his chest whenever you'd tug on his coat, asking if he needed any assistance with organizing his office. He wonders what it was, though.)

So, here you were, amidst the symphony of pen strokes etching against paper, a solitary melody resonating within the confines of his office.

Contrary to his expectations, the calmness he believed would dissipate upon your arrival had, in fact, been amplified by leaps and bounds. As he observed from the corner of his eye, you reclined on your stomach, legs swinging idly behind you, immersed in a world of creativity. Strewn across the floor, an assortment of crayons bore testament to your artistic endeavors, while he diligently attended to the papers handed by the Fatui.

Then, as if hesitant to break the comfortable silence, you tried to catch his attention with a soft 'psst!', then covered your mouth with your tiny hand to suppress your childish giggles.

The corners of his lips twitch in irritance amusement as he turns his head toward you, his pen on the desk. You broke into a much bigger grin and held your drawing close to your chest, not wanting to expose it just yet. "Hey, Dotdot!" You whispered to him, and he can't help but roll his eyes smile at the nickname you've given him. "Can I show you what I drew?"

Dottore emitted a contemplative hum as if grappling with the decision of whether to engage or remain absorbed in his thoughts. Your evident impatience manifested in a pout, prompting his response. "Well, fine," He yielded, beckoning you forth. You beamed brightly as you swiftly rose to your feet and bounded toward him, your landing generating a muted grunt from him. A steadying hand rested on the desk, enabling him to regain his composure, after which he settled your giggling form comfortably within the space between his legs. "Now then," He put his hands on your shoulder, "What is it you wished to share?"

With another giggle from your ceaseless childish amusement, you gave him the piece of paper. Big, round eyes sparkling against the light of the room looked up at him expectantly. Dottore received the drawing from you, his gaze lingering over its details, drawn into a moment of shared curiosity and wonder.

It was him, and you, holding hands, depicted with earnest effort and the imaginative touch of your youthful artistry. Around you were a bunch of other versions of him, his segments, though you've only drawn five (since they were the only ones who have interacted with you so far). Each had their names labeled beneath them, but Dottore absolutely adores that you've labeled him as 'Dotdot' instead (you've also drawn Pantalone holding your other hand and labeled him as 'Pants', adorned both figures with encircling hearts).

"Truly remarkable artwork," He stated with a smile, his words accompanied by the sound of your jubilant cheers, "This masterpiece deserves a place of honor, a spot where all can admire it. I can already imagine the joy it will bring to the other segments once they lay eyes on it."

"Really!?"

"Of course, I do believe they enjoy your company, little bunny."

As he carefully set the drawing on his table, your inquisitive gaze caught his attention. With a tilt of your head, a gesture he knew all too well, you asked him a question, "Why do you call me that?"

"Hm? Call you what?" Dottore grabbed you gently and settled you onto his desk. Positioned face to face, at eye level, his intent was clear—to engage with you as both an adult and a child, a balance you seemed to relish.

"Bunny! You call me bunny lots,"

"Oh? Do you not like it?"

You vigorously shook your head, "No no, I love it! I get called nicknames, but they're all mean." You furrow your brow as you reminisced, pouting at the awful memories. But then you broke into a big smile again, "But yours is new and cute! So, why do you call me that?"

Dottore's grin widened, revealing his sharp teeth, a sight that enthralled you. Your hands instinctively moved to his cheeks, your eyes filled with wonder, and he welcomed the touch wholeheartedly. "Ahh, ever so curious, aren't you, little bun?" He teased playfully, giving your nose a gentle boop! with his finger, and your giggles were a delightful response. "You see, I call you bunny because you embody its spirit—small, swift, and an endless source of vibrant energy.

You also love to hop onto people a lot."

"I love giving surprise hugs! I'm too small, so a jump, so I can wrap my arms around them a bit higher!" You huffed as he chuckled at your explanation. "What are you, then? What animal?"

"Oh? I've never thought about what kind of animal I'd be... Hmmm..." Dottore mused for a while, his expression thoughtful. Eventually, he arrived at a decision. "A fox, I think. Crafty, shrewd, and sly. A creature that prowls with a purpose and possesses those distinct, sharp teeth." As he said that, he grins once more to show his sharp teeth, then lunges for your finger, mimicking a bite, prompting you to gasp and pull back with a joyful squeal.

"And speaking of bunnies..." His tone took on a mischievous edge, causing your eyes to widen in anticipation. Suddenly, he swooped in, grabbing your legs and lifting you high into the air. "I might just gobble you up!" Dottore's playful pretense of chomping down on you elicited a cascade of laughter from you. You pushed at his head, trying to escape his 'gobbling' jaws, your legs kicking playfully as you enjoyed the moment.

"I don't think you're a fox, Dotdot!" You quipped, retaking your seat on his desk. Playfully swinging your legs, you mused aloud, a soft humming accompanying your contemplation.

Dottore raised an intrigued eyebrow, "Oh? And what am I in the eyes of my little bunny? Perhaps something more fearsome?" He inquired, looming over you in an effort to intimidate you.

Instead, your eyes lit up brightly, and you joyfully clapped your hands together. "Oh, I've got it! A crow!" You exclaimed with a triumphant smile.

A bemused frown replaced his grin as he processed your unexpected response. "...A crow?" He echoed, clearly puzzled by your choice. "Of all animals?"

And you merely smile at him, giggling at his confused reaction, "Mhm! Yeah! A crow that talks on and on and on." Your hands followed your words, almost hitting him in the face, "A crow that is death and prey over rotting corpses, but a crow that saved me! I thought Dotdot was an angel, but angels don't have black feathers, scary smiles, or red eyes."

Your words painted a vivid picture of your perception, a whimsical and deeply personal perspective on his nature. Dottore nods along, intrigued, as you rambled your thoughts to him, not even chastising you for grabbing the beak of his mask and playing with it.

"You're a crow! You're very smart, and clever, and creative! You're scary to other people, but not to me! I love corvids, I used to feed them bits of animal after I dissect them, and they always bring me something shiny. They were my only friends, and now you're my friend too!"

He doesn't understand the gentle warmth that began to unfurl within his chest as he remained attentive to your words. While unfamiliar, this sensation wasn't entirely unwelcome... "I beg to differ, my dear bunny. I am unmistakably a fox,"

"Then you're a crow pretending to be a fox!" You pout, stubbornly crossing your arms. "I think crows are way cooler than foxes. They can fly! Plus, you can't call yourself a fox when you resemble a crow more than a fox!" You pointed out, a triumphant smirk on your lips.

Well, you do have a point. He does wear a beaked mask, coupled with a bird-like shoulder embellishment bedecked in exquisite black feathers.

"Should I then consider donning attire that better befits a fox?"

At the notion, you fixed him with a mock glare, your cheeks puffing out in an adorable display of discontent. "Nooooo! I prefer Mr. Crow!" you protested with a playful whine, punctuating your words by delivering gentle punches to his shoulders with your tiny hands.

He chuckles at your small tantrum, and he swiftly gathers you into his embrace. Your arms naturally encircled his neck as he rose from his seat, carrying you toward the door, your precious drawing clutched in your hands. "Very well, very well, my dear Mr. Crow it shall remain," He conceded with a playful tone, his steps filled with an easy camaraderie.

Victoriously, you shot him a smug grin, to which he rolled his eyes at.

"Do you wanna know something, Mr. Crow?" You mutter in his ear as he walks past one of his segments.

"Hm? What is it?"

You made sure to whisper it very quietly, hoping the other segments won't hear you. "Between you and me, I think that your younger segments are like rats!"

He didn't know what came over him, he released a hearty, resounding laugh, its volume surprising not just you but also the other segments who happened to be present, each momentarily taken aback by their own affairs. Such an outpouring of mirth was rare for him (only when he was inside his dark, cool lab, alone with experiments).

A sense of pride swelled in your chest as you grinned widely, his laughter infectious as you burst into a fit of giggles. It was a scary laugh, maybe it was just naturally like that, but to you, it sounded very happy. "They bit me once! I was just poking their face."

"Perhaps give them a treat before you approach them," He says, calming down as he continues his trek toward your room. "This gesture might just soften their demeanor."

"What, like cheese?"

"Oh, little bun, that'll drive them even more mad once they found out you called them rats."

You share another grin with him, finding a cozy spot to rest your chin upon his shoulder in contentment, "Good! I think they're funny when their faces turn red."

- ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛❛ If you like this a lot, consider reblogging! I’ll appreciate it very very much! Don’t repost and/or translate my work anywhere. ❜❜ ┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌

[rqbossman]

Hello Mr Bossman! (and possibly anyone else who reads this)

Its an honour to be here, I have a few questions. First i appologise for the long paragraph, you may dismiss it for the questions at the bottom. For context, i am here after finishing TMA and being up to date with TMAP, i then went over and listened to RQG, and have just finished listening to Epilogue 3 and might i just say, good sir I am grateful for your podcasts. I am currently just a few months away from my final exams of High School, and as someone who even just 1 year ago was very lost, struggling with school and being just overwhelmed. TMA isnt exactly comforting, but the characters and plot managed to serve as a good form of escapism while sorting myself out. I found my self engaging more in creative things that i had originally put aside in favour of maths and science (which i hated but thought i needed to do). I started drawing again, even if just fanart. and i found things going well. By finding podcasts, story telling and these communities have helped me in my own understanding of what i want in life. I got an ADHD diagnosis earlier this year, and almost directly after started RQG and as my first hyperfixation (that i was aware of as an hyperfixation) gosh dang it hit hard. (in a good way). Ive been able to do so much more creative writing and drawings, and got re-involved with a small dnd group with some friends who i played one game with almost 4 years ago now. So overall, inspirational sounds cringe, but it was. Im doing my best with the upcoming exams, but trying to get in to Medicine is not my only prority, and the fact ive been re-introduced to my first love (Literature and story telling), im planning to go do an Arts degree and i know i wouldnt have been able to confidently make this decision, or even have survived this long in the school system without the work you and your coworkers do. Now the sap is out of the way, Question time! (if you could answer even just one of these questions it would be so cool)(they go in order of RQ relevant to random stuff)(dont feel pressured to answer all/any. i know i wrote alot): 1. what would you say is the best way to draft out a long-form story. (with "Erasing the Line" as an example) Did you start at the end, with the links to the overarching plot.

2. When working with the players (in a form of TTRPG), what did you do to make sure you didnt miss relevant timing of plot points/ avoid creating spoilers while still giving enough detail?

3. What are good places to start with making a job out of storytelling/voice acting/audio etc. In the case of RQ, how is this a job and where do i sign up please! /j (what i mean is, how is best way/how did you find all the people involved and was there a common path that you were all on before getting to where you are now?) 4. Do you have recommendations for Terry Pratchett Books, i may be an literary-leaning student, but it seems i have never actually properly read any of his books. so where is best place to start?/What did you read first?

5. Similar authors or similar inspirations? Did you have a favourite podcast you listen to in your free time that you havnt had a hand in producing/directing/working on. 6. Favourite song/album/artist. And more specifically, what you like listening to in background when doing either writing or (for ttrpg) character research/game planing. 7. Since the olympics are on at the moment, what has been your favourite sport to watch, if you have been watching at all. Thank you for your time :)

Thankyou for all the kind words. Knowing our work is helping people really keeps our engines fired up. Let's see if I can't answer your questions: 1. I "sandbox" which is where I just shove everything I can think of into an unorganised bullet point list. Characters, setting, plot, all of it in one big mess. Then I decide what type of story you want to tell, copy and paste to a new document and then start to organise the thoughts (with the sandbox on standby if new stuff comes in I don't know what to do with). I think of it like scultping, you cut away bits and reshape until something comes out the other end that is story shaped. Only then do I attempt to build the sandcastle and put something coherant together like a synopsis or scratch draft etc.

2. Very tricky. I did a complete review and update of all notes after each recording session and don't forget the audio eas edited. I made lots of gaffs that you never heard as audience.

3. I contacted anyone I could convince to take part and just proved I was serious by overworking. I don't reccomend that route. Unfortunately it really is "who" you know. That doesn't mean chase established professionals as much as it means you need to get out there and associate with other up-and-comers who match your vibe. For me the route was long and windy and not a particularly good example. 4. I normally recommend people do not read his books in publication order. Don't get me wrong, its wonderful watching his craft grow from one title to the next but I would recommend new readers tip their toe into his later works to see if they like where he ended up before committing the time. I often recommend 'Monstrous Regiment' as people's first one. My favourite though is 'Thief of Time.'

5. I don't get much time to listen to podcasts in the last couple of years. I used to listen to a lot of non fiction. 'Stuff you Should Know' and that ilk. I also read a fair amount of classic YA fiction to unwind (Windinsger trilogy, Bartimeous, stuff like that.) 6. Paul Simon's Graceland but when working I assemble a playlist for each seperate project that is tonally appropriate. If I really need to focus I listen to Classical Minimalism. Or the Old School Runescape soundtrack. I'm allowed to be ecclectic. 7. I am actually in an incredibly busy work crunch at the moment so haven't seen any of it!

[theendorisit]

my journey into Magnus, through the meme format (incomplete, bc there’s too much)

how I found out about it (April 2024)

i said to myself, this will be an excellent way to recover from a toxic private sector job, before I start work at the civil service!

that first episode

Perfection

one of my favourite episodes ‘book of the dead’

basically final destination on hardcore mode.

Discovering the existence of not-Sasha

Elias torments Melanie

get to about ep 120 “isn’t this the narrator from Slay the Princess”

Getting on to the end of season 4, looking on the internet for clarity on characters and finding a message saying ‘Peter Lukas and Elias Bouchard have been divorced 3 times’

realising I listened to 200 episodes in less than 2 weeks

This is not a podcast, this is hardcore drugs, and I am an addict.

joining the hype train

genuinely sad I missed the kickstarter. Though the fandom is pretty hyped still 😁

but there’s lots of lovely videos of the cast and crew chatting and playing together

and there’s a sequelllll, and it’s amazing 🤩

mfw the sequel is based on a a toxic private sector company, and set in the civil service

literally every episode is a banger

every episode in the last part of season 1 is getting me hyped

Ready to break the website getting tickets for the Season 2 premiere

So thanks so much @jonnywaistcoat, @rqbossman, @rq-producerperson, @anouchard, Hattie, and anyone else at Rusty Quill who is lurking in the shadows. It’s been such an enjoyable experience so far!

[byghostface]

Rq who is nika? Had some art tagged daminika cross my dash and I am Intrigued

Nika alias Flatline, a character created by writer Joshua Williamson and artist Gleb Melnikov, was introduced in Robin(2021) run—where Damian Wayne as the fifth Robin running off home attended the Death tournament on Lazarus Island.

Nika is the first opponent Damian faces on the island and she proceeds to take his first life with her signature move— ripping his heart out with her bare hand (no one actually dies, people would have three lives during the tournament on the island).

She is a Russian metahuman girl and a martial arts fighter, with the power to absorb the skills of people who had died in her hands.

Flatline(+Damian) arts from Gleb Melnikov's Twitter(X)

Here's the reading guide/list of her! Made by @/ redhoodtwt on Twitter(X)

Reading order↓ (text ver.)— Mainly appears in Robin(2021), Lazarus planet: Next evolution, and Batman and Robin(2023), with some mentions and cameos in other/different issues

Rebirth- Robin(2021)#1-8, Robin(2021)Annual#1, Robin(2021)#9~11, Deathstroke Ink.#7, Robin(2021)#12

Shadow War- Shadow War: Alpha #1, Robin(2021)#16~17, Batman vs. Robin#2, Lazarus planet: Next evolution#1

Dawn of Dc- Free comic book day 2023: Dawn of dc- Knight Terrors#1, Batman and Robin(2023)#1, Batman and Robin(2023)#6~7…(current ongoing run)

Another Flatline summary and reading list made by @/ batquinz on Twitter(X)

And here's a quick rundown of Nika and Damian's relationship thread on Twitter(X) Made by @/ nightwingstyles

Some daminika covers that I love! (they have a lot of ship names, and the most popular ones are: daminika, flamian, gravebird🪦🕊️, graverobin🪦🐦, birdskull🐦💀)

Cover art- Robin(2021)#2/ #7/ #15(1:25 variant cover)- Artist: Gleb Melnikov/ Simone Di Meo/ Mario Foccillo

And currently, Nika is in the new issue of Batman and Robin(2023)# 7!

Thank you for reading and taking an interest in Nika!! Hope you will like her as an amazing cool character!!!💀♥️

[rq-gift-exchange]

Squad Road Trip Master Post

Veggie Squad Road Trip - @housetomte The Iron Squad is going on a "road trip" to the beach

The Quiet Game - @acourtofladydeath Tairn and Sgaeyl try to survive a flight with their little golden terror.

Running on Empty - @sarahydeart The squad are on a road trip! Or they would be, if they hadn't run out of gas.

Are We There Yet? - @yanny-77 Xaden drives Violet's squad to the beach...and immediately regrets it.

Road Trip Detour - txredsoxmama Created for RQ War Games and for my 1st Wing-mates. Just a silly little drabble.

Admit it, We are Lost - @alexandia03 The marked ones run away from home before their parents find out what they did.

War Games Drabbles - E_Hyde Part 1 of Hyde's War Game Drabbles

Play Stupid Games, Win Stupid Prizes - @alltoowellread Drabbles for the RQ Discord Server War Games.

Empyrean Drabbles - @greeneyedwildthing The gang take a roadtrip for summer vacation

One More Thing - Squad Leader Attie The squad gets ready to go on a road trip, but Ridoc needs one more thing.

What's the Holdup?? - EmJay The squad goes on a road trip but encounters traffic.

Road Trip! - @oh-no-its-dragons Violet and the squad work at a college town Barnes and Noble. They gotta get the books across town.

Road Trip Drabble - Veggie Tales Style - ILoveMyThighs The squad takes (unknowingly) sentient veggies on a road trip. This is their story.

Country Roads - @taumoebaa Violet and gang go on a road trip.

Road Trip - SarahEliz A post-term road trip for the Iron Squad

Ridoc's Shennanigans - Scarlet_Aeon The gang is going on a road trip....and Ridoc gets to pick the seating arrangements.

Lost - Nivaria Does anyone ever know where they're going?

Twilight Meets Fourth Wing - @spicycleansejuice Fourth Wing and Twilight characters head to the baseball field

Worth - EeveeAlchemist Anyone taking their first look at Evie would say that she didn’t belong in the Rider’s Quadrant. Secretly, Evie believed they were right.

Reginald, Reggie, RG for Short by @vanthh Please don't ask how I ended up from a turtle POV.

For What It's All Worth - @silverlude Violet and her friends get dragged away by their dragons to a mysterious place for a "vacation".

Baby Iron Squad - Fireheart_Rose When the Iron Squad go on an early morning hike, fall asleep, wake up as toddlers. The others find them…chaos ensues.

The Road to the Border - @quihi Rhiannon’s squad volunteers to meet the Navarrian families moving to Aretia. Turns out, they’ll be taking a road trip in both directions.

Squad Summer - @korrinamoe Imogen just wants to see Garrick, but her travel plans somehow end up involving everyone.

Prank Gone Wrong - Portjules Sawyer and his squad go on a roadtrip to fulfill another of Ridoc's pranks. What could go wrong?

Your Turtle is Blue - Nedeit “Tell me again what they said,” Brennan commanded, trying not to think about the sun setting down far away in front of them. 

The Leitis Commemoration Day Road Trip - Miz What a beautiful day, I think as I wake up in my bedroom overlooking Aretia.

First Wing Road Trip Warning: Alcohol Abuse, fainting, missing person

Road Trip "I swear to Malek if you don't move right now, I will force you to."

Car Ride with Liam Fourth Wing & Iron Flame Spoilers

[suebswrites]

20 Questions for Writers Game

Thank you for tagging me, @yanny-77 and @caeli0306!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 14! Plus a bunch on fanfiction.net from back in the day...*checks* 23. 23 works on FF.net that I will not share with you unless you are my friend, lol.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 114,162 words

3. What fandoms do you write for? The Empyrean (Fourth Wing) is the only fandom I currently write for, including one crossover with Bridgerton. All of my back-in-the-day fanfiction was for Harry Potter, but I don't write for anything other than the Empyrean anymore.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? Just Ask - 1,087 Xaden POV: At Samara - 350 Throne Scene: Xaden POV Microfiction - 170 Dear Brennan - 117 Bridgegiath - 110

5. Do you respond to comments? Yes! At least, I try to. Though when I get an influx of a lot of comments at a time, I get overwhelmed and a little anxious about wanting to respond to them all, and then I get avoidant, heh. So it may not be right away, but I try to respond to as many comments as I can, and often will go back weeks later and then respond to them once I'm less anxious. As any writer will tell you, comments absolutely make my day and I read them over and over again, even going back and reading them days or weeks (or months) later.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Probably Happy Birthday, Violet, which is a drabble I wrote for the "birthday" prompt from the RQ War Games events in June. It's not necessarily angsty so much as sad. (I was hurting again about Liam at the time, lol.) It's tiny and short, you'll be fine.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? I have no idea how to answer this. Almost all of them are happy! I think. Uh. Okay @yanny-77 tells me that the answer is Ridoc Talks To The Dragon, and I believe her.

8. Do you get hate on fics? Nope! Well, never on AO3 or Reddit. I got, like...three negative comments on my biggest HP fic on FF.net years ago, but they were only three comments among over 400, so whatever, lol.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Yes! I have written M/F and M/F/M. I only want to write sex if there are feelings involved, though, so I don't write any pwp. I don't know that I could, to be honest. The only fic I've written that had smut, outside of Just Ask, is canon-compliant TO Just Ask, and leans on the context built in the main longfic, heh. So...therrrrrre you have it!

10. Do you write crossovers? Yes! But only one. Bridgegiath is a Bridgerton-Empyrean crossover fic where all the characters from Fourth Wing are in a Bridgerton-world, more or less following the plot from Bridgerton Season 1. The most common comment type I've gotten on it is "the crossover I didn't know I needed AND I NEED IT SO MUCH", lol. It's hilarious and delightful and I plan to get back to it once the summer is over and I have more time to write again!

Bridgegiath - a Riorgail, Bodoc, Immrick, Jesiam fic, featuring (among all the others), Lady Durranbury as Lady Danbury. It's a blast.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? No

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? I will steal @yanny-77's answer and say that I am not cool enough for that. Lmao

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Hell yes. Co-writing has become my love language. I've co-written with @yanny-77 and @sarahydeart and all four times were fucking awesome.

Dear Brennan The Book Cat Garrick's Snorkel Ridoc Talks To The Dragon

14. What is your all-time favorite ship? My favourite ship is Liam/Violet/Xaden, for many reasons, which I will list now lol.

I adore each of the dynamics in this triad: the obvious friends-to-lovers, protect-you-with-my-life, slow burn fall of Violet and Liam; the explosive chemistry between Violet and Xaden; and the love that would grow between Xaden and Liam, born of being fostered together after the trauma of losing their parents, being separated for two years when Xaden went to Basgiath, and then meeting again once Liam gets there--and then they both fall for the same person.

I think Liam balances out a lot of Xaden's dark-and-broody energy, and could bring out a more relaxed version of him. And I think Xaden could bring out a harder edge to Liam that would be incredibly sexy. Liam and Violet's dynamic I obviously adore, and I think the way they take care of each other is fucking delightful and healthy and sweet. I think there's such an easy likelihood that both Xaden and Liam would fall for Violet.

I genuinely don't consider either Liam or Xaden to be bisexual, but I think they could fall for each other in this specific scenario, because of the unique dynamic of trust they have with each other.

All of this to say...Liam/Violet/Xaden is my One True Polypairing, heh, and one day I might write it. But that is a very distant, very pipe-dreamy one day.

Shoutout to Harry/Hermione, though. I'll die on that hill to this day.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Oof. I absolutely intend to continue Bridgegiath once I'm less busy, this summer has been absolutely bananas, and I'm REALLY hoping I'll be able to take it to a satisfying conclusion eventually.

16. What are your writing strengths? I have been told, and I think I agree and hope that it's true, that I'm able to wring quite a wide range of emotions out of my readers. I have it on good authority that I can bring you from thrilling tension to desperately turned on to heart-stopping angst without missing a beat, and have a decent eye for knowing when to insert a funny little exchange to ease tension before diving back in.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? I hope I won't lose my fanbase if I honestly say "finishing", heh. Though looking back at my history, I actually did finish both longfics that I wrote for Harry Potter, and I'm on track to finish Just Ask in a timely manner. I'm not too worried about Bridgegiath, because I know I'm much more likely to be invested in it again once I'm done Just Ask. It's just my original stuff that I struggle with I guess...

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? I would rely entirely on Google translate if I ever did this, and thus would probably butcher any attempt.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Harry Potter, waaaaay back in 2007, two days after Deathly Hallows came out. I couldn't accept that Harry and Hermione didn't get together. (And I still can't.)

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Just Ask. It's probably the best thing I've ever written. I started writing it to deal with my intense book hangover after Iron Flame, I'm still writing it, and it will be finished before the release of Onyx Storm. I am fiercely proud of it.

---

Tagging: @taumoebaa and @ubiquitouslyme and @copperfirebird

[alukardtheabysswalker]

The first "iconic" line we get in The Magnus Protocol, I.E. an intense, horrific, clearly a lot of weight put into it line in the first episode is "Some of him"

Of course this is a reference to the many taxidermied creatures/people from TMA, in fact it's a variation of what "Sarah" said to Jon when he asked if she was indeed Sarah. "Some of her".

Now I believe this could be narratively significant too, I don't want to outright assume that it is because sometimes you add something to be significant for other reasons, emotionally, effect on the audience, etc. TMA is no stranger (HAHA) to this and you can see it too in other RQ works and even Jonny's writing in his books.

However as soon as I heard Alex as Norris and therefore assumed one of the other voices was gonna be Jon (I was right but it was a fair thing to guess by anyone) and working on the assumption that Augustus is similarly related (one common theory right now is that that is Jonah Magnus's voice since Ben Meredith was supposed to voice him but he couldn't do it and it is intended to sound like an old man very much what Jonah said he was before he attempted The Right to The Watcher's Crown) then we get to my point:

I believe this might be hinting at the fact that entities and people on TMAGP universe are made of or have parts of other characters. "Some of them"

Chester, Norris and Augustus have the voices (perhaps more?) everyone in the OIAR crew has characteristics and sometimes directly reference (unknowingly) the TMA crew.

Some examples are Sam being of Arabic/Middle Eastern descent and good friends with an Alice. Alice having a similar attitude and sometimes saying stuff that Tim said. Gwen not only being from a rich family of the name Bouchard but also having some of the worst qualities of both Jon and Elias. Colin being closed off and prone to violence that seems to come from a constant battle with the supernatural, like Melanie. There might be more that I'm missing but this are the ones I have spotted so far or can think of.

In some of my favorite media (JJBA for instance) when given the opportunity of showing a different but similar universe the author decided that instead of doing direct references (those could be reserved for fun plays at the audience like Prince Abdul in Steel Ball Run or Gerry and Gee Gee in TMAGP) it's more interesting to "fuse" or "tear apart" previous characters into one or many others (like Josuke Higashikata who's both Gappy and arguably Norisuke, or Gyro being both William and Caesar) in order to create new characters that might do some call backs but aren't direct 1:1 versions of the previous universe.

In conclusion:

It might be that "Some of him" was not just emotionally charged but also a narrative hint that either thematically or (and here is how this gets interesting) literally many characters or entities in TMAGP are MADE of "Some of them"=Characters from TMA.

[teddypoi-qd]

TMAGP ARG, Days 1 & 2

Here's a quick writeup of what the Discord's discovered so far!

Day 1 - Quick Beginnings!

Through an ad on the MAG podcast feed, we got an email that sent to OIAR's HR! Sending an email here gave us an autoreply with a link the OIAR website.

On the website we found a youtube channel and a bunch of alchemy symbols and suspicious typos scattered around the place, some more emails, and an identification form.

Investigating the form and the youtube channel, led us to a usenet newsgroup for DDR (East German) diaspora.

Much of our effort on the first day focused on translating and archiving this usenet group in a gDoc for easy reference.

Day 2 - Revelations & Whoopsies

Bit of a slower day today! We managed to translate and archive the entire newsgroup over the night. Some of the team has been working on making a database of the messages on Google Sheets, whilst others have settled on exploring other leads. In the newsgroup, specifically in the very important Cats thread, we found an image with another alchemy symbol! More on that one later.

Back on the site, I personally thought to look again at the images, and noticed their names all had a string of numbers in them. Twelve numbers, to be precise -- enough for a phone number if the country code was two numbers. A little solving later, we had a phone number! After a false start, we gave it a ring and, lo and behold, we were through to the OIAR! A robovoice informed us of system maintenance and asked us to call back on September 22nd!

Later on that day, a crack team of nerds ran the image from the Cats thread through some Steganography software and found the date time combo of: Saturday, 30th September 11:00 to 19:00.

A suspicion that a few members were holding was brought to light at this time, and they got to investigating! The castle at the end of the OIAR's recruitment video has a walking tour on Sept 30th! Though this might not be relevant, a more local member has decided to pop by and see if anything comes to light! (Note: please don't flood this poor walking tour with random MAG fans -- we're not certain it's relevant)

TL;DR:

called a number, got told to call back on Sept.22

found a date in a photo, Sept.30 (11:00-19:00)

booked a walking tour for the above time!

A * Digression…

During the excitement of solving the phone number puzzle… We got a little too nosey for our own good. During the call, we found that pressing * would let you into a series of settings. Neat, thought we, Some more data to sort through! So our intrepid group of explorers started sorting through the voicemails this revealed to us, and called the number of one of them, still believing it to be a trail of ARG clues.

"Hello?" Said Martyn RustyQuill.

Yes, dear readers, this was not an ARG clue. Through our dogged determination, we ploughed our dumb, smart asses into the backrooms of the ARG. The voicemails we discovered were, in fact, test calls that RQ did to ensure the number was up and running. The number that was called was Martyn RQ's real ass phone number. RQ panicked. The mods panicked. Slowmode went up.

Luckily, thanks to quick work from everyone involved, we cleared up any chance of other people calling Martyn's number, and we're now out of the backrooms and back on track!

Don't press * !

[01shiho-hinomori08]

Hey this isn't like me but I wanted to make a rant rq because I'm doing better and just want to warn people about stuff like this

Tw for Gr00ming and S3xual harassment

My ex dated me when I was 15 and she was 17. That doesn't sound that bad, sure, but two years is a huge maturity gap.

I want to let you guys know the warning signs here because she displayed all of them, even if she didn't mean to be an abuser, she did. I will specify here, this was all online in the span of two months, which proves one again, a lot of crap can happen in even a DAY, two years is a whole other story.

You may blame me because i begged her to stay but this brings me to point number one

1. If a younger person comes onto you, don't interact. She said that the age gap made her uncomfortable, so I was fine with it and wanted to stay her friend, which makes me worry it was my fault. But then I was clearly attached bc we called all day and night and she ended up 'catching feelings' for me. She should have blocked me if it was a problem, a mentally ill child coming to you isn't going to end well. So if an adult or someone too old just still interacts with someone young, that's a warning sign. Which brings me to another

2. "Its legal so it's okay" NO NO NO. No it's not. She initially was like "Oh the gap makes me uncomfortable" yet she kept going and then even talked to MY best friend about how she would never date someone like me. But either way, if someone has to specify its legal just to make themselves feel better, it's not okay. Yes it's legal, but does that make it morally okay? When I was being born, you were already two. Yes, I knew a lot of words you didn't and I was 'more mature' than you, but that doesn't erase the fact that you still have had an entire two years to develop ahead of me.

3. Isolating you from friends. She had my passwords, and I had hers but it meant I couldn't talk to my friends about my worries because she had it all. I had also blocked my best friend on everything because she was uncomfortable, and this person has been with me for almost THREE YEARS, and I had to throw it out because she wasn't happy and I was scared she'd leave me if I didn't [Hes forgiven me, so it's alright] I didn't even realize what had happened until my friends noticed how bad my mood swings were due to her. I had also introduced her to like, all of my friends, but she'd go on my account without permission and message them from my account meaning she could see anything I was saying

4. They get you exceedingly expensive or 'dangerous' gifts. By dangerous gifts, I don't mean stuff that's harmful [though that's also bad] but I have strict parents and my mom would probably question packages I'd get. So she ended up getting MY BEST FRIEND'S ADDRESS and sending it there. Luckily, she's not gonna do anything with it and I made sure she deleted it, but she also had mine and my brother's name which is scary. She bought me only two things, an OMORI plush and my favorite book but she had also bought me VRC+ [bc we used to play every night] and it made me feel like I owed her more.

5. You find yourself becoming more dependent on them. She used to beg me not to leave whenever I tried [I have BPD and do it a lot, I know it's bad, it's why I don't date] but then I would feel sometimes like I could NEVER leave if I wanted to. She told me to not be selfish and take away her happiness and it was scary. I spent every waking second with her, she heard me talking to my family, in school, even has watched me shower. I thought it was out of love and pure comfort but now I feel gross thinking about how I'd prop up my phone or always have my headphones charged just to make sure neither of us would get into trouble. It was uncomfortable to panic all the time and always undress in front of her

6. Overly s3xual shit. If someone is older than you and is genuinely being s3xual, RUN. S3x jokes is still kind of iffy, depends what kind. I know, as a minor, minors will be doing stuff like that, but at the end of the day, the brain is not fully developed, we cannot properly consent. We would talk like that almost everyday and I would feel so gross. I couldn't do anything without her being gross, really. I used to think it was sweet and romantic but I just, feel icky now. I can't look at myself still.

There's obviously a lot more but as I'm typing this, I'm reliving memories I don't want to. I just want you all to feel safe. Some things that happened when we were nearing our end, she moved on to a new friend group, completely sexualizes herself to her new friends and then when I'd talk about how uncomfortable it made me, she'd say it was all friends, one of the last "nice moments" we had was when we were broken up, and she got off to my voice that night. Then the next day, was cold again, and the day after that, blocked me on everything. She put 18, minors dni in her bio while she was still talking to me before her birthday was here. After blocking me too, she sent me a video of herself on Halloween while I was out with friends so I just tried not to break down.

I shared my interests with her, and they're now hers. I drew her all of the time, I shared everything with her, and now I feel like crap.

What I will say, I am a mentally ill child, she constantly would tell me how her mental health was fine. I will have mood swings, I will try to push her away, and that was my problem. But at the end of the day, I was a CHILD and I'm disgusted by the things I did to make her happy. It wasn't that long ago, but it still doesn't mean I'm not trying to heal every day. Thank you for reading and please, please remember to stay safe and take care of yourself.

[caeliangel]

WELCOME TO CAELIAN'S PAGE,

“I prefer that the patient also forgets the doctor, unless they relapse.”

screen reader ver coming !

‼️HELP PALESTINE‼️

RQS: CLOSED

"Anyone is free to kill himself, as long as I’m not around to see it.” (😭)

ask game

🥩 : one of my labels

🧠 : singer / band I like

🫀: song I like

🕸 : media I like

🦴 : book I like

Numbers = song in my likeds (1 to 224)

about, byf && dni under the cut!

| lesbian flags | gay flags | mspec flags | aro/ace flags | cluster b flags | butchfemme bi flags |

Pint: flags I made

⸺﹒ABOUT ME !!﹒⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⠀⚘️

🦇⋅ ⋅ ⋅ the winged one﹕ 𓆪

you can call me caelian / célian, or seph. I will always answer to those.

I am a franco-irish white indigenous pagan celt!

⚰️⋅ ⋅ ⋅ about the mind﹕ 𓆪

Nbpdtism + pdid + mixed origins.

🩸⋅ ⋅ ⋅ about the identity﹕ 𓆪

My main pronouns are he, hew, hy, she! I am a futchy boygirlflux bi intersex velaurian! Otherkin stuff includes but is not limited to: angelkin, vampkin, werewolfkin && more.

🕊⋅ ⋅ ⋅ about the interests... ﹕ 𓆪

trigun, nge, ff7, tloz, hello kitty, psychology, writing, poems, reading, literature, hoarding stuff and much more!

⸺﹒WILL & WONT DO﹒⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⠀⚘️

．．．will

hyperspecific terms

icons

gender && term coinning

contradictory labels

names finds

．．．won't

whatever makes me uncomfortable

tranx/id or any radqueer labels

terms for things I do not know well

paraphilic flags or terms

please note I can refuse anything for whatever reasons!

⸺﹒BYF & DNI !!﹒⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⠀⚘️

．．．byf

I am critical of my own interests and believe that things should be consumed critically.

I take everything personally and struggle to read tone!

Anyone can use my flags, just be respectful and credit me.

Dont steal them or change their meanings, thats all im asking. My flags have nothing to do with your queer discourse.

I support "contradictory" labels, this includes but is not limited to: mspec lesbian, mspec gay, lesboys, turigirls, etc.

I believe bisexuals can reclaim the d slur, the f slur, and use the double venus and double mars symbol. I also think butchfemmes are queer labels and not lesbian exclusive.

I am a battle axe bisexual as in, I fight and advocate against biphobia.

I am against separatists aswell and will not tolerate those who took away from bisexuals. Fuck biphobes.

．．．dni

Terfs, radfems, transmeds, truscums, gender skeptics, gender police, etc.

Believe in monosexual privilege, or use terms like "cis passing" "straight passing"

Anti xeno/neos and anti mogai/liom

Think non-binaries can't be gay/lesbians or don't support he/him lesbians or she/her gays

Fakeclaimmers

Against "contradictory labels"

Against otherkin, non-humans, therian, etc!

Under 13, unless I follow first.

If you demonize the cluster b (npd, bpd, hpd, aspd) and this includes if you belive that narcissistic abuse exist.

If you're going to judge me or mock me/my interests.

Anti-ageres.

Any kind of bigot.

Exclus or "Safequeers"

Radqueers

If you're here to argue or be a meanie whatever

⸺﹒TAGS !!﹒⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⠀⚘️

🦇︰︵︵ winged hoard : my hoard!

⚰️︰︵︵ rise the flag : flag making

🩸︰︵︵ gift for the beloveds : any requests

🥩︰︵︵ the food is here : flags I find gorgeous

🗝︰︵︵ memories : icons

💌︰︵︵ letters : inbox/asks/games

just for archival / pinterest purporse

🎀︰︵︵ combo flags

💗︰︵︵ orientations

💋︰︵︵ genders

❤️‍🩹︰︵︵ mad flags

🍬︰︵︵ plural flags

🐈‍⬛︰︵︵ otherkin flags

🦴︰︵︵ pint: caepiric (posted on pint)

🕷︰︵︵ butchfemme

coining event archives...

cael300foevent : tag for the 300 followers event.

cael400foevent : tag for the 400 followers event.