#detective banks

[markhoffmanstits]

WE DON’T HAVE TO FIX EACH OTHER.

Fandom: Saw/Spiral: From The Book of Saw

Pairing: Spiralshipping // Zeke Banks x William Schenk

Time Taken: Approximately 5 - 6 Hours

Word Count: 3,437

Warnings: Spiral Spoilers, Flashbacks, Fight Scenes, Not Proofread

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The watch sounding in the quiet room was almost deafening. Dark eyes staring at the wall, blankly. There’s a storm, a flurry, of thoughts going around in the head of the detective.

Zeke turns his head, leaning back in the recliner he’s sat in, his feet kicked up on the coffee table as he stares out the window, now. Something to satisfy his mind, maybe.

Nothing does that, though. Not anymore.

The flurry in his mind is nothing more than memories, coming in quick flashes, sometimes too fast for him to ever process; despite that, he knows exactly what he’s seeing behind his eyelids.

The warm eyes that he had come to see as kind, once upon a time. A familiar voice, though it sounds faint, almost muffled and underwater in his memories.

That horrible texture of the skin under his fingers. Everything is always simple visual and auditory memory, until this moment. The realization of whose skin that was — whose skin that should have been — always brings a new sensation.

That same feeling of raw, fresh fear, mixed with a dreaded sense of misery and hopelessness. Despite their short time together, they seemed to click. Everything was a perfect fit. It all seemed to work.

Zeke raises his hands to his face, immediately placing his palms over his eyes as he grits his teeth.

Why — why must his brain torture him with the constantly replays, the constant want and need to see him? None of this was ethical.

His life was nowhere near normal — nor ethical — anymore. So, why should he care?

The detective stands up, letting out a groan as his back pops. He thinks about it long enough to wonder if he’s really getting that old. He knows he isn’t.

Grabbing his coat, Zeke slips on arm through a sleeve as he grabs his keys off of the table near his door, walking out. He’s not planning on going far, but he carefully secures the door, anyway.

Bounding down the hallway, he manages to fight his right arm into its sleeve, pulling the coat up over his shoulders. It feels looser than usual, no shoulder holster to take up space.

Zeke notes that he feels a bit naked without it, but he’s only going downstairs. He should be fine. William — no, he refuses to think of him by name — that monster should be nowhere near his apartment. He’s not that stupid. Is he?

No, this cat-and-mouse game has gone on for months, reaching a year by the end of the next month. He isn’t anywhere near that stupid.

In his train of thought, Zeke doesn’t realize how fast he’s made it to the lobby, his destination. He slips past a small group of neighbors having a friendly, even joyful, conversation, with a barely muttered “excuse me.”

His keys jingle in his hand as he shakes the keyring, trying to shuffle through them to the key of his mailbox. He manages to select the correct one, fixing his grasp on it between his fingers as he unlocks the mailbox.

Such a simple action puts him on edge. The ‘gifts’ left for him still haunt him. They always will, he thinks, though he hates to imagine it.

Zeke’s breath catches in his throat as he sees a small package in his mailbox. He hasn’t ordered anything. He started to reach for his phone, but what’s he going to do? Call for help?

They’d laugh. Call him paranoid. Tell him that Schenk was gone, moved away, not to be seen or heard from again.

In that moment, Zeke felt completely and utterly alone.

Chest tight, he struggles to take a few breaths, and slowly glances around. It feels as if time is slowed; but just on the other side of the lobby windows, the sun is shining, the cars passing by as if everything is normal.

Zeke wonders for a brief moment if Schenk is inside one of those cars. Maybe he’s inside the white Chevrolet Suburban that just drove westbound, or he could be in that midnight blue Mazda 3 that was going eastbound.

Or maybe he isn’t here at all, right, Zeke?

Why would Schenk be here, again? Why would he be near the one person who saw him for what he is?

A blonde female in the small group of neighbors turns her head to look at the detective, a quizzical look in her bright eyes. She seems to want to ask him if he’s okay, and such a sentiment is enough to snap Zeke out of his thoughts.

He grabs the package, the action too quick for him to talk himself out of it, practically slamming the mailbox shut before pulling his keys out and walking past the group once again.

This time, they fall silent, a few stepping away to give him space. He does brush arms with the blonde, who still looks to him as if she wants to say something, but Zeke runs up the stairs to his floor before she can.

He needs to open this package. Suddenly, it feels as if his life depends on it. He stares at it, noting that there is no return address, no postage stamp or label.

Just a handwritten name;

Detective Banks.

Looking up from the package, Zeke notes that the numbers before him, on the door, are not his apartment, but rather the apartment of his late father, and he ducks away. His feet are moving on their own, down the hall.

Struggling with his keys as he very carefully tucks the package under his left arm, as carefully as someone may handle a live bomb, the detective lets out a frustrated hiss as his keychain slips from his grasp, landing on the floor.

“God damnit-“ He crouches down, reaching for the keychain, but movement spotted out of the corner of his eye catches his attention.

Zeke instinctively jumps up, and he scrambles for his firearm, realizing that it’s not on his person. Again, the feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, is back.

His sidearm is in his apartment. His has no weapon to defend himself, only his fists.

Does he retreat inside his apartment with the package, or does he follow the person he saw?

He debates, knowing that there is no guarantee that what he thought he saw, just out of the corner of his eye, was really there.

After a moment, Zeke picks up his keys, and slowly, stepping very gingerly, walks down the hall, towards the location of the movement. It’s another stairwell, he knows.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath, his grasp on the package under his arm suddenly much tighter, as he steps out to look at the stairwell leading to the next floor.

Nothing. There was no one there.

Zeke wonders if he’s going crazy. Maybe his paranoia, his lack of sleep, and everything else in his life is finally catching up.

He retreats back to his apartment, walking quickly as he finally manages to select his apartment key from his keyring. He slides the key into the lock, turning it and pushing the door open before pulling the key from the lock and shutting the door.

He, once again, is sure to secure the door behind him. His keys are dropped back onto the table, and he picks up his sidearm, holding the pistol in his right hand as he walks to his counter, setting the package down.

Zeke sets his pistol on the counter next to the package, carefully and hesitantly. Maybe this will, quite literally, blow up in his face. Would it be worth it?

In the back of his mind, if this is from Schenk, maybe it would be. Part of him feels as if he’d do anything to hear from that man, at least one more time.

He has the passing thought that he wishes he had taken Schenk up on the offer to be partners. He was going to, before his emotions clouded his judgement.

He grabs the sealed fold-over flap at the top of the packaging, slowly ripping it open. He tenses, pausing mid-tear to feel for any threads, any wires.

Zeke comes to the realization that the package is, likely, not rigged. None of the others had been.

William only wanted to kill the bad cops. He didn’t consider Zeke to be one, and Zeke knew that.

I have been loyal to you since the day we met; fifteen years ago.

… Is this a show of loyalty? To show that William hadn’t forgotten him?

Zeke, once more, grabs the fold-over flap, and completely tears it from the package, spilling the contents out onto the kitchen counter.

His breath catches as a badge falls from the package, skidding across the counter surface, a horrible sound of metal against faux marble.

Has it started again?

Pure fear courses through Zeke’s veins, and he grabs the badge as quickly as he can, raising it to peer at the badge number. It’s not one he’s familiar with, but he memorizes it. He needs to remember it.

He picks up the disc, in it’s own small sleeve, to protect it from scratches during transportation. There’s another handwritten message on the sleeve, though it’s not a name.

Miss me?

Zeke doesn’t notice as a faint, whispered “yes” escapes his lips, carefully removing the disc from the protective sleeve. He feels like a ghost as he walks towards his small, almost pathetic looking, television set.

His footsteps don’t sound out in his mind. He isn’t hearing himself. His feet feel as if he is floating, hovering just barely above the floor. All of this feels surreal.

He’s suddenly hopeful. Hopeful that William has come back for him.

He opens his DVD player, slipping the disc inside and closing it, focusing on the television screen, as it his entire life hinged on what he was shown.

His stomach twisted as the screen came to life, a smiling, thinner build man, dressed in a black coat, with that familiar red hood, seemed to peer at him, unseeing.

“William,” Zeke mutters, and his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach out, but there’s no one to touch, no one to hold. He is alone in this room.

The smile falters, and Zeke notices a hint of sadness in William’s eyes, which would possibly be hidden by the slight distortion of the video, if not for the fact that the man’s shoulders were down, almost as if he were slumping.

“Ezekiel… Zeke.” The video distorts, just a bit, and then clears up. “Oh, how long it has been. You’re still with the department, but they’ve turned their backs on you, even more than before, haven’t they?”

The detective casts his gaze downward, as if avoiding eye contact with a man who isn’t there.

“You’re loyal, you believe you can make a difference from where you are. I know that’s what you’re reaching for. Your goal.”

A small, bitter chuckle resounds from the man on the disc, and the recording once again distorts for a moment.

“I want to play a game, Zeke. I want you to find me. It shouldn’t be too hard. You still stop by the place sometimes, despite the vacancy of it and the memories that follow.”

Zeke’s head perks up, and he immediately stands, rushing to his coatrack to grab his shoulder holster, slipping it on under his coat.

“Come find me, Detective Banks.”

The detective rushes to the door, grabbing his keys and wallet, along with his badge, off of the table in his small makeshift foyer. Nothing can stop him, not now.

He rushes out the door, slamming it shut behind him. When he reaches the stairs, he hops on the railing, sliding down the side of the staircase.

The small group that was previously gathered in the lobby are now dispersed, though Zeke makes little notice of that fact as he exits the building.

Constantine Trains. It has to be that building, right? He stopped revisiting four months after William had vanished. He didn’t see a point in returning, but his trips there, he didn’t doubt that was what William was speaking of in the recording.

Zeke hops in his car, scrambling to put the key in the ignition and start the engine. When he does, he grabs his sunglasses from the overhead visor and slips them on before pulling out of the parking lot, peeling out onto the street as fast as he can.

It only takes a few minutes for Zeke to pull into the empty parking spaces that sit before the butcher shop that was previously known as Constantine Trains. It takes all his strength to not jump out of the running vehicle.

It feels like it takes ages for Zeke to put the vehicle out of gear and into neutral, pulling up the parking brake and shutting off the engine, pulling his keys from the ignition.

He opens the door and climbs out of the car. In his excitement, he never put on his seatbelt. Slamming the door shut, Zeke takes off running into the building, barely conscious of his sidearm hitting his ribs in its holster as he does.

Pulling off his sunglasses and hooking them on his shirt, Zeke rushes to the exact place that brings him so many memories, and so many overwhelming emotions.

Despite the vacancy of it and the memories that follow.

Pulling his pistol from the holster, the detective bursts into the room, and he has almost a wave of deja vu wash over him as he points his pistol in front of him, “Hands up-“ He commands.

But the room is empty.

A wave of disappointment and dread washes over Zeke, and he lets out a frustrated sigh, holstering his firearm before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Is this really just a game? Is William toying with him? Why?

Didn’t William want to see him, too? The man had looked so sad in the recording, the thought that this all was a game of manipulation never crossed Zeke’s mind, despite knowing William’s true natures.

Hanging his head, Zeke leaves the building, now walking much slower than before. In all his excitement, he now felt let down. Not only did he feel let down, but he felt *embarrassed.*

He takes his time driving back to the apartment complex. There’s no rush this time, no excitement; the feeling of the tires on the asphalt as Zeke drives circles around the city are the only thing keeping his dread at bay.

He doesn’t make it home until eleven o’clock that night, his watch quietly ticking along the hours that he stayed away.

He enters the empty lobby, and then pauses, standing in the doorway as he stares at the mailbox, his eyes narrowing into a squint.

The package. His name, having been handwritten. No address, no shipping information.

Zeke stands straight up, suddenly, and his eyes widen. “Fuck.” He whispers. “You sneaky son of a bitch-“

William couldn’t have shipped the package, not without any postal stamps or addresses. He had to deliver it himself.

He was here.

The memories that follow.

Zeke’s head snaps to look at the staircase. Before he knows it, he’s running up the steps, pulling his pistol from the holster as he finds himself standing in the hallway, staring at the door to his father’s apartment.

Earlier today, he was standing in front of this very door, before he ever opened the package.

So close, and yet so far, this entire time.

William was right under his nose.

Zeke raises his left foot, letting out a grunt as he kicks the door next to the doorframe. He feels the wood immediately give way, and gives it another kick, falling forward into a crouched position as it opens, pointing the pistol into the room.

“William!” The detective shouts, raising an eyebrow. This is it, this should be it. But William isn’t before him. The room is empty, even bare of most furniture, only filled with barebones like the old recliner and loveseat.

Zeke brings himself to an upright position, slowly walking into the room, keeping his sidearm held tight in both hands. He hasn’t been here in months, but he notes the fact that there’s a trash bag in the garbage can near the doorway of the kitchen.

He walks into the living room, scanning the apartment. He goes to take a step, and as his foot hovers over the floorboards, he hears a familiar sound behind him.

Click.

The safety of a gun.

“Hands up, Zeke.”

Panic surges through Zeke’s veins, sent out by every nerve in his body. His urge is to fight, and before he can fight it, he drops his own firearm, turning around and grabbing the barrel of William’s nine millimeter, pointing it up towards the ceiling.

He was a brief moment to note that William’s finger was never on the trigger before the male gives him a sharp kick in the stomach. Zeke falls backwards, gasping for the air that’s been forced from his lungs.

“I don’t want to hurt you, damnit.” William states, and his voice is objective, almost emotionless, but there’s a small frown on his lips as Zeke lunges for him.

The man attempts to step to the side, the detective grabbing the hood of his jacket. A cough escapes William’s throat as Zeke smashes his head into the other’s nose, effectively cracking it to the side and conjuring a cloud of crimson from his nostrils.

“Shit-“ William hisses, hooking his leg behind Zeke’s and pulling back, causing the older to trip and fall backwards, his side hitting the arm of the couch. “Zeke, stop fucking fighting!”

William’s voice is raised, and for a moment they both freeze, staring at each other as they hold their breath. The last thing either of them needed was another resident of the complex hearing the commotion.

For once, the cops arriving here would not be the best idea.

Zeke stares up at William, bringing himself back to an upright position as he watches William wipe his hand under his nose.

The younger is breathing through his mouth, and Zeke realizes that in the struggle, of which William never even wanted, Zeke had broken his nose.

Pulling his sleeve over his hand, William presses the fabric to his bleeding nostrils, peering at Zeke through narrowed eyes.

He manages to let out a grim chuckle despite the pain coming in waves from his broken nose.

“Miss me?” He asks, and Zeke immediately thinks back to the exact words written on the sleeve of the disc.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Zeke approaches the younger man, grabbing William’s arm when he starts to step backwards.

“Don’t move, idiot.” Zeke says, grabbing the bridge of William’s nose. A small yelp escapes William’s lips as the detective snaps his nose back into place, but the rush of air to his lungs through his nostrils is something he’s thankful for.

The silence is awkward, but also somewhat comforting, after so long apart, not knowing what happened to the other.

When Zeke lets him go, William goes to the kitchen and walks back out with a wet washcloth, wiping the drying blood off of his face.

When William enters the room, he notes Zeke sitting on the recliner, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He peers up at William, who smiles at him, now as warm as it was when they first met.

“So, partner, where should we start?”

“Before we start, we need to talk.” Zeke says, in a hushed tone, as if he’s hesitant. This makes the younger tilt his head, and he walks over to the recliner, perching a seat on the arm.

“What’s on your mind, Zeke? Do you not want to do this?” William asks, a tone of apprehension in his voice.

Zeke shakes his head, and wraps an arm around William’s waist, conjuring a yelp from him as he’s pulled down from the recliner’s arm and into Zeke’s lap.

“I just think we should do this first.” Zeke says, his free hand gently grasping William’s chin before leaning in, barely brushing their lips together.

The action is a shock, a surprise, and William almost melts like butter in the elder’s grasp, one hand landing on Zeke’s chest as the other grasps the arm holding his chin.

Zeke lets out a hum as they pull away from each other, his stomach flipping a little.

So much for ethics.

“So, who’s first?”

[bigshotautos]

I really like your theory about Spamton basically haunting a mannequin after death. Have you ever touched upon the reaction from Jevil (or anyone, really) upon seeing the new Spamton? Especially considering Spamton isn't even aware he 'died'.

^ how i think jevil's first sight of Spamton would go. i love this ask. this is referring to some headcanons I made a while back, I'll link it here for the one post and the general ghost spamton theory is linked in that one as well. Going to elaborate on it more under the cut for those interested + more art.

In general I think that people from Spamton's past wouldn't really care if they notice at all, since he wasn't in the business of making close friends with anyone. With the Addisons, in my interpretation he had a "weird co-worker" relationship with them, and while Addisons in general treated each other like potential business competitors that they had to make-nice with, Spamton is especially easy to single out for being visibly and temperamentally different. His altered, current state is something they'd feel at least uncomfortable by, but many wouldn't have been too close with him to begin with for them to talk about it with him directly. Would get whispered about between each other for sure, like we saw with them talking about Spamton after the NEO fight. It moves him from the "disgraced guy I used to know" category to the "actually unpleasant to look at or think about" territory. This goes for Swatch, Queen, and Seam (less so), who seem to buy heavily into the Lightner and Darkner dynamic, with Spamton corrupting the Lightner's dream being a strong taboo against what it means to be a Darkner.

As for what Jevil thinks, Spamton during the NEO fight is both a beautiful and horrifying display. Jevil at this point hasn't seen him in years since his imprisonment, and in their time apart Jevil has grown to find novelty in the cage that everyone else besides him is in since he's created huge emotional distance between him and the reality he lives in. Seeing the fact that Spamton had corrupted an abandoned dream of a Lightner and was causing so much chaos to the established order of the world would be exhilarating, but at the same time seeing that Spamton had accomplished this and still had his strings visible (and changed to a marionette puppet with no symbolic agency), it'd be a painful confirmation of his worldview that even Spamton, who deep down he still cares for, could never have been free.

Jevil would think at first he'd just gone through some nebulous situation to change what he looks like, since ofc he himself has toy-like traits (arguable if that happened with Gasterfication or not), Seam is a plushie cat, and other Card Castle Darkners are based on toys, but feeling the lack of life combined with the symbolic body of Spamton would mean to him something bigger had went wrong. He wouldn't dare to bring it up in an empathetic way, stuck in his mindset that it doesn't matter, but it'd still hit a part of him he doesn't like to think still exists. It's something he gets over quickly, almost performatively going back to fucking with him and taking advantage of his fear for entertainment, but it didn't sit well at first.

To me, the fact Spamton "died" isn't really a huge deal, kind of like with the ghosts in Undertale where no one really cares they're just ghosts. They're just doing their thing. To me it'd be fine if neither of them find out what happened for certain, but it's something that adds Flavor to his character.

[lowkeyrobin]

hey gonna say this shit one last time before I start turning down requests like this as a whole no matter how much I wanna do them, USE YOUR MANNERS. fanfic writers are not your personal writing maids, you can say please or thank you. the way I see some people on this app get zero respect from their inbox is insane and sadly I'm included in that. repeat after me, fanfic writers do not work for you!!!!

this isn't aimed at anyone in specific but it goes for anyone who sees it. treat writers with respect. we don't get paid for our work. we don't get anything other than maybe a handful of likes, a couple reblogs and maybe a comment. I rarely read anymore but when I do, the use of demanding wording turns me off so bad that I like and comment and leave a positive note in their inbox for having to put up with it

anyways be nice to content creators and use manners online. (this goes for ANY content creator, writers, artists, comedians, YouTubers, etc) even if someone denies your request, don't get pissy about it. and don't copy paste requests to other creators, it's demotivating to everyone in the community. anyway sorry for rambling, I need to stop being a people pleaser and allowing this kinda shit so I'm cracking down on it now. Just be nice, it's not hard. no one should wake up to demanding requests using phrases like "write me..." or "make it..." etc. were not ai 💀 were real people with real emotions and feelings.

anyway have a good day/night idek

[dragons-dice]

i love how it's canon that crystal just carries around her passport (and several hundred pounds in cash) while she's going about her life but she can't read her full name on it

[ask-the-agency]

dirk, do u want another jacket?

Dirk: YES!!

Todd: So kind of you to ask, but absolutely not

[scrimblyscrorblo]

Was in a fashion mood and here we are, random Pinterest inspired fits I thought fit the characters

They are the dolls in which I play dress-up

[kyonite]

I am fully cooking btw like I know I said it's coming soon but I wanna finish the game and get them Right before I post so for now. They are solving a mystery. Jen is having several gay revelations at once. Coming soon to an ao3 near you (once I finish the game)

What fully pushes her over the edge, though, is the sight of Dessa Banks sitting in her (thrifted) office chair, spinning around in slow circles and making the whole place reek of cigarette smoke.

When Banks spots her, her face, well it doesn't brighten up, because that would imply she smiles (Banks doesn't smile ever. Except when she's rooting for Spiteful Jen to win out.) but her eyebrows lift and her face settles into something that might, maybe, given enough time to grow, be a smile.

“Good, you're finally back. Someone has been killing my clients.” Banks announces.

“Isn't that… your job?” Jen asks, feeling on the back foot already. You'd think after everything they've been through, she would be a little better at predicting Banks but all the foresight in the world can't help her when it comes to the doctor.

“No,” Banks nods to the cork board, where she's put up a series of grisly crime scene photos, “before I get there.”

Jen steps up, dropping the Medili fried noodles she got for herself and Darrell on the desk as she dodges around it. “Forgive me for my ignorance of how your underground mob doctor thing works, but isn't that also usually how it goes?” The cork board is set up just like how she would do it, neat crime scene photos arranged in columns denoting the first, second, and third victims, along with handwritten notes from Banks about the victims and what they were doing when they contracted her services.

“More than an hour before I get there. One hour and five minutes before I get there, to be exact.” Banks says. Her voice always does this thing when she says words like exact or specifically or other hot doctor words and—there's a crime going on Jen, now is not the time to gay panic.

She focuses on the crime scene photos, since that's safer than the shape of Banks' mouth.

“How can you tell the exact time?” She asks. The crime scene photos Banks has so generously provided are gruesome, and probably taken by her cell phone if the quality is anything to go by. The man in the first set of photos is laid out on a couch, his throat torn in ways that has Jen rubbing her own throat in sympathy.

“I can feel them slip away, just barely, when I get onto the scene,” Banks says, “It’s…” she trails off, “I haven’t been in the business of losing patients recently and my reputation is suffering.” She finishes. Jen chances a glance behind her at Banks only to see the doctor staring unseeing at the floor, hand tapping at her leg.

Banks doesn’t like it when you admit she’s a human being with thoughts and feelings beyond murder and revival, so best to snap her out of this with the patented Jen Keller distraction method.

[waterdroid]

Banks being directly inspired both in design and musical theme by the noire detective genre.... Jen being a straight-up Private Investigator and Detective......

[alltimefail]

Hello, Outer Banks fandom - I’m reaching out on behalf of Dead Boy Detectives! Please help our fandom!!!

Could you guys please sign our petition and help spread it by reblogging?

This isn’t just about getting a season 2: we’re trying to get justice for the cast, crew, and writers behind this unapologetically queer show.

Dead Boy Detectives is full of drama, romance, action, found family, stunning visuals, hilarious quips, and emotionally provocative stories that will touch your heart - I promise you guys will LOVE this show and should check it out! Don’t let the cancellation deter you; it is genuinely phenomenal and will have you laughing one moment and crying the next. The story is well-paced and self-contained, so there’s no gigantic cliffhanger to worry about either. Dead Boy Detectives has so much heart; please help us save our boys who defy heaven and hell with their love! 💜

Thank you in advance to any of you who sign, and a HUGE special thank you to those who stream it! Netflix has gotten far too comfortable canceling shows, especially those with queer themes and diverse leading characters, in their prime. Your support means the world to our detective agency and we appreciate you so much!!!💀🔎💜

[markhoffmanstits]

Thinking hard about Spiral. No reason, just really want to rewatch it.

Kind of brainrotting about Zeke and William.

[jadeazora]

Nintendo will be discontinuing online services for the 3DS and Wii U in Apr2024, however, Pokémon Bank will still work past this point for an unspecified period. However, it's also strongly recommended you move your Pokémon to HOME as soon as possible.

Today's featured clean arts on the TCG Instagram showcase some artistic Pokemon.

Pics from the 3024 anime calendar!

The Taipei-exclusive Pokemon Center plushies!

And a promo vid for a Detective Pikachu flyer:

[driveintheaterofthemind]

Vintage Pulp - Thrilling Detective (Dec1937)

Better Publications

[grezzaler]

"the inbestigators are autistic" correction, neurodivergent. i hc kyle with adhd

people should talk more abt this show

[grapecaseschoices]

Now we can SEE why Felix looked at this man and thought: I am going make this hottie SO flustered!! [Nat: You don't have to ... Felix: No, I'm gunna.]

Doesn't my baby look so fine and adorable? Thank you to @kirnetart for this beautiful piece of my srs nerd [also psst, if you haven't commissioned Mina you should!*]

[prism-petal]

i got fucking scammed the same night i got my first ao3 comment is this the ao3 author curse????

[br-uwu-cewayne]

ID in Alt

Poor Jim… how he suffers…